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Our boys, the Twenty-second Maine,
Kept Early's men in check.
'ust where Wade Hampton boomed away, The fight went neck and neck.
All day we held the weaker wing,
And held it with a will;
Five several stubborn times we charged
The battery on the hill,
And five times beaten back, re-formed,
At last from out the center fight
To lead the crouching line once more
And those who could not speak nor stir, "God blessed him" just the same.
For he was all the world to us,
That hero gray and grim;
Right well he knew that fearfull slope
We'd climb with none but him,
Though while his white head lead the way We'd charge hell's portals in.
This time we were not half way up,
Set up a joyous yell.
Our hearts went with him, Back we swept, Aud when the bugle said,
"Up, charge again!" no man was there
But hung his dogged head.
"We've no one left to lead us now,"
The sullen soldiers said.
Just then, before the laggard line,
Right royally he took the place
And with a neigh, that seemed to say
"How can the Twenty-second charge
Like statues we stood rooted there,
Above that floating mane we missed
The dear familiar face;
But we saw Bay Billy's eye of fire
No bugle-call could rouse us all
As that brave sight had done,
And when upon the conquered height
Vainly 'mid living and the dead
And then the dusk and dew of night
Fell softly o'er the plain,
As though o'er man's dread work of death The angels wept again,
And drew night's curtain gently round
A thousand beds of pain.
All night the surgeon's torches went
But who that fought in the big war
At last the morning broke: The lark
As if to e'en the sleepers there
It bade awake, arise!
Though naught but that last trump of all Could ope their heavy eyes.
And then once more, with banners gay
Stretched on the long brigade;
Trimly upon the furrowed field
The troops stood on parade,
Not half the Twenty-second's men
Stood six brave fellows on,
Now touched my elbow in the rank,
Ah! who forgets that dreary hour
To call the old familiar roll
The solemn Sergeant tries
One feels that thumping of the heart
And as in faltering tone and slow
It caught the Sergeant's eye; and quick
Yes! there the old bay hero stood
Not all the shoulder-straps on earth
FRANK H. CASSADAY.
WHERE SHOULD THE SCHOLAR LIVE?
Where should the scholar live? In solitude or society? In the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of nature beat, or in the dark, gray city, where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man? I will make answer for him, and say, in the dark, gray city. Oh, they do greatly err, who think that the stars are all the poetry which cities have; and therefore, that the poet's only dwelling should be in sylvan solitudes, under the green roof of trees.
Beautiful, no doubt, are all the forms of nature, when transfigured by the miraculous power of poetry; hamlets and harvest fields, and nut-brown waters, flowing ever under the forest, vast and shadowy, with all the sights and sounds of rural life. But after all, what are these but the decorations and painted scenery in the great theater of human life? What are they but the coarse materials of the poet's song?
Glorious, indeed, is the world of God around us, but more glorious the world of God within us. There lies the land of song. There lies the poet's native land. The river of life, that flows through streets tumultuous, bearing along so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks of humanity; the many homes and households, each a little world in itself, revolving round its fireside, as a central sun; all forms of human joy and suffering, brought into that narrow compass; and to be in this and be a part of this ; acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing, with his fellow-men; such, such should be the poet's life.
If he would describe the world, he must live in the world. The mind of the scholar, also, if you would have it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds. It is better that his armor should be somewhat bruised even by rude encounters, than hang forever rusting on the wall. Nor will his themes be few or trivial, because apparently shut in between the walls of houses, and having merely the decorations of street scenery.
A ruined character is as picturesque as a ruined castle. There are dark abysses and yawning gulfs in the human heart, which can be rendered passable only by bridging them over with iron nerves and sinews, as Challey bridged the Savine in Switzerland, and Telford the sea between Anglesea and England, with chain bridges. These are the great themes of human thought; not green grass, and flowers, and moonshine. Besides, the mere external forms of nature we make our own and carry with us into the city, by the power of memory.
H. W. LONGfellow.
IN SCHOOL DAYS.
Still sits the schoolhouse by the road,
And blackberry vines are running.
Within, the master's desk is seen,