“Ill fed, ill clad, and shelterless,
    How little cheer in health we know! 
    When wounds and illness lay us low,
  How comfortless our sore distress!

  “These flimsy rags, that scarcely hide
    Our forms, can naught discourage us;
    But Hunger—­ah! it may be thus
  That Fortune shall the strife decide.

  “But while the corn-fields give supply
    We’ll take, content, the roasting-ear,
    Nor yield us yet to craven fear,
  But still press on, to do or die:” 

ED. PORTER THOMPSON.

* * * * *

THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG.

[July 3, 1863.]

  A cloud possessed the hollow field. 
  The gathering battle’s smoky shield. 
  Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed,
  And through the cloud some horsemen dashed,
  And from the heights the thunder pealed.

  Then at the brief command of Lee
  Moved out that matchless infantry,
  With Pickett leading grandly down,
  To rush against the roaring crown
  Of those dread heights of destiny.

  Far heard above the angry guns
  A cry across the tumult runs,—­
  The voice that rang through Shiloh’s woods
  And Chickamanga’s solitudes,
  The fierce South cheering on her sons!

  Ah, how the withering tempest blew
  Against the front of Pettigrew! 
  A Khamsin wind that scorched and singed
  Like that infernal flame that fringed
  The British squares at Waterloo!

  A thousand fell where Kemper led;
  A thousand died where Garnett bled: 
  In blinding flame and strangling smoke
  The remnant through the batteries broke
  And crossed the works with Armistead.

  “Once more in Glory’s van with me!”
  Virginia cried to Tennessee;
  “We two together, come what may,
  Shall stand upon these works to-day!”
  (The reddest day in history.)

  Brave Tennessee!  In reckless way
  Virginia heard her comrade say: 
  “Close round this rent and riddled rag!”
  What time she set her battle-flag
  Amid the guns of Doubleday.

  But who shall break the guards that wait
  Before the awful face of Fate? 
  The tattered standards of the South
  Were shrivelled at the cannon’s mouth,
  And all her hopes were desolate.

  In vain the Tennesseean set
  His breast against the bayonet! 
  In vain Virginia charged and raged,
  A tigress in her wrath uncaged,
  Till all the hill was red and wet!

  Above the bayonets, mixed and crossed,
  Men saw a gray, gigantic ghost
  Receding through the battle-cloud,
  And heard across the tempest loud
  The death-cry of a nation lost!

  The brave went down!  Without disgrace
  They leaped to Ruin’s red embrace. 
  They only heard Fame’s thunders wake,
  And saw the dazzling sun-burst break
  In smiles on Glory’s bloody face!