SEE THE FIELD OF BATTLE GLEAMS.

See, the field of battle gleams
Yonward past the tented streams,
    There the foe is camping;
By the thirst-assuaging rill,
From the copse behind the hill
    Hear his war-steeds champing.

Northern Knights and Southern Sons,
Onward to the gleaming guns! 
    Now’s the hour of battle! 
Though his files be ten to one,
Seek the foe from sun to sun,
    Where his muskets rattle.

O’er the walls with slaughter wet,
O’er the ball-scarred parapet,
    Daring man and missile,
Charge to meet his best or worst,
Where his shrieking bombshells burst
    And his bullets whistle.

Roll in waves of living blue,
Pierce the columned centre through,
    Fill the world with wonder;
Rush, as with a lion’s will,
Where his lightnings flash to kill
    And his cannon thunder.

Meet him with a tiger’s spring,
Quicker than an eagle’s wing,
    Where the bayonet piercest. 
When you feel the foeman’s breath,
Soldier, strike for life or death,
    Where the fight is fiercest.

Than a coward, proved and known,
Better be to atoms blown,
    Where the doomed are dying. 
Welcome death in wildest way,
But to mingle with that clay
    Where the brave are lying.

Thus will Honor be our meed
For some doubly daring deed
    When we end our story. 
Then in graves with roses blown,
By the hands of patriots strown,
    We will sleep in glory.

THE DYING SOLDIER TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

I plead with tears to thee,
  Sweet warbler of the shade,
Breathe not such strains to me,
  The sweetest ever made. 
Who bade thee slight my woes? 
  Who taught to pierce my heart? 
Leave me to death’s repose,
  Depart, sweet bird, depart.

Still come, with every strain,
  Warm dreams of woeless days;
Still beam, on life’s past plain,
  Love’s long lost golden rays,
That gleam on forms gone by,
  On friends I called my own,
Who calmly rest, while I,
  Wild wandering, weep alone.

But if thou still must sing,
  Sing of my endless woes,
Of Life, a poisoned spring,
  Of Love, a scattered rose;
Wail-warble those who weep,
Wild-warble but the brave;
  To the wearied, sing of sleep,
And sing, to me, the grave.

BURKE OF THE BRAVE BRIGADE.

Inscribed to Dennis F. Burke, last Commander of the Irish Brigade, at Gettysburg.

THE SPIRIT OF THE SOUTH.

“Why come ye to this mountain, lads,
  In panoply of war? 
Why leave ye the hills of your native heath,
  To seek these heights afar?”

BURKE OF THE BRAVE BRIGADE.