Along the outer line we ward
  A crackle of skirmishing goes on. 
Our lads creep round on hand and knee,
  They fight from behind each trunk and stone;
  And sometimes, flying for refuge, one
Finds ’tis an enemy shares the tree. 
Some scores are maimed by boughs shot off
  In the glades by the Fort’s big gun. 
  We mourn the loss of colonel Morrison,
  Killed while cheering his regiment on. 
Their far sharpshooters try our stuff;
And ours return them puff for puff: 
’Tis diamond-cutting-diamond work. 
  Woe on the rebel cannoneer
Who shows his head.  Our fellows lurk
  Like Indians that waylay the deer
By the wild salt-spring.—­The sky is dun,
Fordooming the fall of Donelson.

Stern weather is all unwonted here. 
  The people of the country own
We brought it.  Yea, the earnest North
Has elementally issued forth
  To storm this Donelson._

FURTHER. 
         A yelling rout
Of ragamuffins broke profuse
  To-day from out the Fort. 
  Sole uniform they wore, a sort
Of patch, or white badge (as you choose)
  Upon the arm.  But leading these,
Or mingling, were men of face
And bearing of patrician race,
Splendid in courage and gold lace—­
  The officers.  Before the breeze
Made by their charge, down went our line;
But, rallying, charged back in force,
And broke the sally; yet with loss. 
This on the left; upon the right
Meanwhile there was an answering fight;
  Assailants and assailed reversed. 
The charge too upward, and not down—­
Up a steep ridge-side, toward its crown,
  A strong redoubt.  But they who first
Gained the fort’s base, and marked the trees
Felled, heaped in horned perplexities,
  And shagged with brush; and swarming there
Fierce wasps whose sting was present death—­
They faltered, drawing bated breath,
  And felt it was in vain to dare;
Yet still, perforce, returned the ball,
Firing into the tangled wall
Till ordered to come down.  They came;
But left some comrades in their fame,
Red on the ridge in icy wreath
And hanging gardens of cold Death. 
  But not quite unavenged these fell;
Our ranks once out of range, a blast
  Of shrapnel and quick shell
Burst on the rebel horde, still massed,
  Scattering them pell-mell. 
    (This fighting—­judging what we read—­
    Both charge and countercharge,
    Would seem but Thursday’s told at large,
    Before in brief reported.—­Ed.)
Night closed in about the Den
  Murky and lowering.  Ere long, chill rains. 
A night not soon to be forgot,
  Reviving old rheumatic pains
And longings for a cot.

  No blankets, overcoats, or tents. 
Coats thrown aside on the warm march here—­
We looked not then for changeful cheer;
Tents, coats, and blankets too much care. 
  No fires; a fire a mark presents;
  Near by, the trees show bullet-dents. 
Rations were eaten cold and raw. 
  The men well soaked, come snow; and more—­
A midnight sally.  Small sleeping done—­
    But such is war;
No matter, we’ll have Fort Donelson._