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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,
And kept our columns still.

At last from out the center fight
Spurred up a General's aide.
"That battery must silenced be!'
He cried, as past he sped;
Our Colonel simply touched his cap
And then, with measured tread,

To lead the crouching line once more
The grand old fellow came.
No wounded man but raised his head
And strove to gasp his name,

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,
When, midst the storm of shell,
Our leader, with his sword upraised,
Beneath our bayonets fell.
And, as we bore him back, the foe

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,
The Colonel's horse we spied
Bay Billy with his trappings on,
His nostrils swelling wide,
As though still on his gallant back
The master sat astride.

Right royally he took the place
That was of old his wont,

And with a neigh, that seemed to say
Above the battle's brunt,

"How can the Twenty-second charge
If I am not in front?"

Like statues we stood rooted there,
And gazed a little space;

Above that floating mane we missed

The dear familiar face;

But we saw Bay Billy's eye of fire
And it gave us heart of grace.

No bugle-call could rouse us all

As that brave sight had done,
Down all the battered line we felt
A lightning impulse run;
Up, up the hill we followed Bill
And captured every gun.

And when upon the conquered height
Died out the battle's hum,

Vainly 'mid living and the dead
We sought our leader dumb,
It seemed as if a spectre steed
To win that day had come.

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
The ghastly rows between-
All night with solemn step I paced
The torn and bloody green;

But who that fought in the big war
Such dread sights has not seen?

At last the morning broke: The lark
Sang in the merry skies

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,
And bravely 'mid the ranks were closed
The gaps the fight had made.

Not half the Twenty-second's men
Were in their place that morn,
And Corp'ral Dick, who yester-noon

Stood six brave fellows on,

Now touched my elbow in the rank,
For all between were gone.

Ah! who forgets that dreary hour
When, as with misty eyes,

To call the old familiar roll

The solemn Sergeant tries

One feels that thumping of the heart
As no prompt voice replies.

And as in faltering tone and slow
The last few names were said,
Across the field some missing horse
Toiled-up with weary tread,

It caught the Sergeant's eye; and quick
Bay Billy's name was read

Yes! there the old bay hero stood
All safe from battle's harms,
And ere an order could be heard,
Or the bugle's quick alarms,
Down all the front, from end to end,
The troops presented arms !

Not all the shoulder-straps on earth
Could still our mighty cheer,
And ever from that famous day,
When rang the roll-call clear,
Bay Billy's name was read, and then
The whole line answered "Here."



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.


Still sits the schoolhouse by the road,
An idle beggar sunning;
Around it still the sumachs grow,

And blackberry vines are running.

Within, the master's desk is seen,
Deep-scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats;
The jack-knives' carved initial.

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