Crushed were her sides and the waves ran across her,
Ere, like a death-wounded lion at bay,
Sternly she closed in the last fatal grapple,
Then in her triumph moved grandly away.

Five of the rebels, like satellites round her,
Burned in her orbit of splendor and fear;
One, like the pleiad of mystical story,

Shot, terror-stricken, beyond her dread sphere.

We who are waiting with crowns for the victors,
Though we should offer the wealth of our stores,
Load the Varuna from deck down to kelson,

Still would be niggard, such tribute to pour On courage so boundless. It beggars possession,— It knocks for just payment at Heaven's bright door!

Cherish the heroes who fought the Varuna;
Treat them as kings if they honor your way;
Succor and comfort the sick and the wounded;
Oh! for the dead let us all kneel to pray!

Nathaniel Graham Shepherd was born at New York, in 1835. He was a journalist, and at the time of the civil war a war correspondent. Among several war-poems which he has written, Roll Call is the most popular. Shepherd died at New York, May 23, 1869.

ROLL-CALL.

"Corporal Green!" the Orderly cried;
"Here!" was the answer, loud and clear,

From the lips of the soldier who stood near,-
And "Here! was the word the next replied.

"Cyrus Drew!"-then a silence fell;
This time no answer followed the call;
Only his rear-man had seen him fall;
Killed or wounded-he could not tell.

There they stood in the failing light,

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,
As plain to be read as open books,

While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood,
And down in the corn where the poppies grew
Were redder stains than the poppies knew ;
And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.

For the foe had crossed from the other side
That day, in the face of a murderous fire
That swept them down in its terrible ire,
And their life-blood went to color the tide.

"Herbert Kline!" At the call there came Two stalwart soldiers into the line,

Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

Ezra Kerr !"—and a voice answered, "Here! "

"Hiram Kerr !"-but no man replied.

They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed, And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

Ephraim Deane !"-then a soldier spoke ; "Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said; 66 Where our ensign was shot I left him dead, Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

Close to the roadside his body lies;

I paused a moment and gave him a drink ; He murmured his mother's name, I think, And death came with it, and closed his eyes."

'T was a victory; yes, but it cost us dear,—

For that company's roll, when called at night, Of a hundred men who went into the fight, Numbered but twenty that answered "Here!"

ABRAHAM JOSEPH RYAN.

Abraham Joseph Ryan was born at Norfolk, Va., August 15, 1839. Father Ryan was a Catholic priest, and a confederate chaplain through the war. He was also a writer of war-poems, known most widely by The Conquered Banner, in which with the old fervor for that flag which

"will live in song and story,"

is mingled decisive resignation and counsel to "Furl that Banner, softly, slowly!"—

and to

"Let it droop there, furled forever,-
For its people's hopes are fled."

Ryan died at Louisville, Ky., April 22, 1886.

THE CONQUERED BANNER.

Furl that Banner, for 't is weary,
Round its staff 't is drooping dreary;

Furl it, fold it, it is best;

For there's not a man to wave it,

And there's not a sword to save it,
And there 's not one left to lave it
In the blood which heroes gave it,
And its foes now scorn and brave it ;
Furl it, hide it,―let it rest!

Take that Banner down! 't is tattered;
Broken is its staff and shattered,
And the valiant hosts are scattered
Over whom it floated high;

Oh, 't is hard for us to fold it,

Hard to think there's none to hold it, Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh !

Furl that Banner-furl it sadly;
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly,
And ten thousands wildly, madly,

Swore it should forever wave—
Swore that foemen's swords could never
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever,

And that flag should wave forever
O'er their freedom, or their grave!

Furl it for the hands that grasped it,
And the hearts that fondly clasped it,
Cold and dead are lying low;
And the Banner-it is trailing,
While around it sounds the wailing,
Of its people in their woe ;

For though conquered, they adore it-
Love the cold dead hands that bore it,
Weep for those who fell before it,