For still with their loud, deep, bull-dog bay,
  The Yankee batteries blazed away,
  And with every murderous second that sped
  A dozen brave fellows, alas! fell dead.

  The grand old graybeard rode to the space
  Where Death and his victims stood face to face,
  And silently waved his old slouched hat—­
  A world of meaning there was in that!

  “Follow me!  Steady!  We’ll save the day!”
  This was what he seemed to say;
  And to the light of his glorious eye
  The bold brigades thus made reply: 

  “We’ll go forward, but you must go back “—­
  And they moved not an inch in the perilous track: 
  “Go to the rear, and we’ll send them to hell!”
  And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell.

  Turning his bridle, Robert Lee
  Rode to the rear.  Like waves of the sea,
  Bursting the dikes in their overflow,
  Madly his veterans dashed on the foe.

  And backward in terror that foe was driven,
  Their banners rent and their columns riven,
  Wherever the tide of battle rolled
  Over the Wilderness, wood and wold.

  Sunset out of a crimson sky
  Streamed o’er a field of ruddier dye,
  And the brook ran on with a purple stain,
  From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain.

  Seasons have passed since that day and year—­
  Again o’er its pebbles the brook runs clear,
  And the field in a richer green is drest
  Where the dead of a terrible conflict rest.

  Hushed is the roll of the Rebel drum,
  The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb;
  And Fate, with his pitiless hand, has furled
  The flag that once challenged the gaze of the world;

  But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides;
  And down into history grandly rides,
  Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat,
  The gray-bearded man in the black slouched hat.

JOHN RANDOLPH THOMPSON.

* * * * *

DRIVING HOME THE COWS.

  Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass
    He turned them into the river-lane;
  One after another he let them pass,
    Then fastened the meadow bars again.

  Under the willows, and over the hill,
    He patiently followed their sober pace;
  The merry whistle for once was still,
    And something shadowed the sunny face.

  Only a boy! and his father had said
    He never could let his youngest go;
  Two already were lying dead
    Under the feet of the trampling foe.

  But after the evening work was done,
    And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp,
  Over his shoulder he slung his gun
    And stealthily followed the foot-path damp,

  Across the clover and through the wheat
    With resolute heart and purpose grim,
  Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,
    And the blind bat’s flitting startled him.