THE COLOR-BEARER. (VICKSBURG, MAY 22, 1863.)

LET them go!-they are brave, I know-
But a berth like this, why, it suits me best;
I can't carry back the Old Colors to-day,
We've come together a long rough way-
Here's as good a spot as any to rest.

No look, I reckon, to hold them long;
So here, in the turf, with my bayonet,
To dig for a bit, and plant them strong-
(Look out for the point-we may want it yet!)

Dry work!-but the old canteen holds fast
A few drops of water-not over-fresh-
So, for a drink!-it may be the last-
My respects to you, Mr. Secesh!

No great show for the snakes to sight;

Our boys keep 'em busy yet, by the powers!Hark, what a row going on, to the Right! Better luck there, I hope, than ours.

Half an hour! (and you'd swear 'twas three)—
Here, by the bully old staff, I've sat―
Long enough, as it seems to me,

To lose as many lives as a cat.

Now and then, they sputter away;

A puff and a crack, and I hear the ball. Mighty poor shooting, I should sayNot bad fellows, may be, after all.

My chance, of course, isn't worth a dime

But I thought 'twould be over, sudden and quick

Well, since it seems that we're not on time,
Here's for a touch of the Kilikinick.

Cool as a clock !-and what is strange,

Out of this dream of death and alarm, (This wild, hard week of battle and change,) Out of the rifle's deadly range

My thoughts are all at the dear old farm.

'Tis green as a sward, by this, I knowThe orchard is just beginning to set, They mowed the home-lot a week ago

The corn must be late, for that piece is wet.

I can think of one or two, that would wipe
A drop or so from a soft blue eye,
To see me sit and puff at my pipe,
With a hundred death's heads grinning hard by.

And I wonder when this has all passed o'er,
And the tattered old stars in triumph wave on
Through street and square, with welcoming roar,
If ever they'll think of us who are gone?

How we marched together, sound or sick,
Sank in the trench o'er the heavy spade-
How we charged on the guns, at double-quick
Kept rank for Death to choose and to pick-
And lay on the bed no fair hands made.

Ah, well!-at last, when the nation's free,
And flags are flapping from bluff to bay,
In old St. Lou what a time there'll be !
I mayn't be there, the Hurrah to see-
But if the Old Rag goes back to-day,
They never shall say 'twas carried by me!

THE BURIAL OF THE DANE.

BLUE gulf all around us,

Blue sky overheadMuster all on the quarter, We must bury the dead!

It is but a Danish sailor,

Rugged of front and form;
A common son of the forecastle,
Grizzled with sun and storm.

His name and the strand he hailed from
We know and there's nothing more!
But perhaps his mother is waiting
In the lonely Island of Fohr.

Still, as he lay there dying,

Reason drifting awreck,
""Tis my watch," he would mutter,
"I must go upon deck!"

Ave, on deck-by the foremast!-
But watch and look-out are done;
The Union-Jack laid o'er him,
How quiet he lies in the sun!

Slow the ponderous engine,
Stay the hurrying shaft!
Let the roll of the ocean

Cradle our giant craft-
Gather around the grating,
Carry your messmate aft!

Stand in order, and listen
To the holiest page of prayer!
Let every foot be quiet,
Every head be bare-
The soft trade-wind is lifting
A hundred locks of hair.

Our captain reads the service,

(A little spray on his cheeks,) The grand old words of burial,

And the trust a true heart seeks"We therefore commit his body

To the deep"-and, as he speaks,

THE VAGABONDS.

WE are two travellers, Roger and I.

Roger's my dog.-Come here, you scamp! Jump for the gentlemen,-mind your eye! Over the table,-look out for the lamp!The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,

And slept out-doors when nights were cold,

And ate and drank-and starved-together.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow !

The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle

(This out-door business is bad for strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank ye, Sir-I never drink;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral,Aren't we, Roger?-See him wink!

Well, something hot, then, we won't quarrel. He's thirsty, too,-see him nod his head? What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk! He understands every word that's said,And he knows good milk from water-andchalk.

The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I've not lost the respect

(Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,

So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,

To such a miserable, thankless master!
No, Sir!-see him wag his tail and grin
By George! it makes my old eyes water!
That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter!

We'll have some music, if you're willing,

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, Sir!)

Shall march a little-Start, you villain !

Paws up! Eyes front! Salute your officer! 'Bout face! Attention! Take your rifle ! (Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold

your

Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle, To aid a poor old patriot soldier!

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes
When he stands up to hear his sentence
Now tell us how many drams it takes
To honor a jolly new acquaintance.
Five yelps, that's five; he's mighty knowing!
The night's before us, fill the glasses!-
Quick, Sir! I'm ill,-my brain is going!—
Some brandy, thank you,—there!—it passes
Why not reform? That's easily said;

But I've gone through such wretched treat

ment,

Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach's past reform; And there are times when, mad with thinking, I'd sell out heaven for something warm To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends, A dear girl's love,-but I took to drink;

The same old story; you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features,-
You needn't laugh, Sir; they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures:
I was one of your handsome men!
If you had seen HER, SO fair and young,
Whose head was happy on this breast!
If you could have heard the songs I sung
When the wine went round, you wouldn't
have guessed

That ever I, Sir, should be straying
From door to door, with fiddle and dog,
Ragged and penniless, and playing

To you to-night for a glass of grog!

She's married since,-a parson's wife: "Twas better for her that we should part,Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.

I have seen her? Once I was weak and spent
On the dusty road: a carriage stopped

But little she dreamed as on she went,
Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped

You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry;
It makes me wild to think of the change!
What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? you find it strange?

I had a mother so proud of me!
"Twas well she died before-Do you know
If the happy spirits in heaven can see
The ruin and wretchedness here below?

Another glass, and strong, to deaden
This pain; then Roger and I will start
I wonder has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing in place of a heart?

He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,

No doubt, remembering things that were,— A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,

And himself a sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now; that glass was warming.—
You rascal limber your lazy feet!
We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink;-

The sooner the better for Roger and me!

OUR LADY.

OUR lady lives on the hillside here,

Amid shady avenues, terraced lawns, And fountains that leap like snow-white deer, With flashing antlers, and silver fawns; And the twinkling wheels of the rich and great Hum in and out of the high-arched gate; And willing worshippers throng and wait, Where she wearily sits and yawns.

I remember her pretty and poor,-

Now she has servants, jewels, and land:
She gave her heart to a poet-wooer,——

To a wealthy suitor she bartered her hand.
A very desirable mate to choose,—
Believing in viands, in good port-juice,
In solil comfort and solid use,-
Things simple to understand.

She loves poetry, music, and art,

He dines, and races, and smokes, and shoots; She walks in an ideal realm apart,—

He treads firm ground in his prosperous boots: A wise design; for you see, 'tis clear, Their paths do not lie so unsuitably near As that ever either should interfere

With the other's chosen pursuits.

By night, as you roam through the rich saloons,
When music's purple and crimson tones
Float, in invisibly fine festoons,

O'er the buzz and hum of these human drones, You are ready to swear that no happier pair Have lived than your latter-day Adam there, And our sweet, pale Eve, of the dark-furrowed hair,

Thick sown with glittering stones.

But I see, in the midst of the music and talk, A shape steal forth from the glowing room, And pass by a lonely cypress walk,

Far down through the ghostly midnight gloom, Sighing and sorrowful, wringing its hands, And bruising its feet on the pointed sands, Till, white, despairing, and dumb it stands, In the shadowy damp of a tomb.

The husband sprawls in his easy-chair,

And smirks, and smacks, and tells his jest, And strokes his chin with a satisfied air,

And hooks his thumbs in his filagreed vest;

And the laugh rings round, and still she seems To sit smiling there, and nobody deems

That her soul has gone down to that region of dreams,

A weary, disconsolate guest.

Dim ghosts of happiness haunt the grot,
Phantoms of buried hopes untold,

And ashen memories strew the spot

Where her young heart's love lies coffined and cold.

With her burden of sin she kneeleth within, And kisses, and presses, with fingers thin, Brow, mouth, and bosom, and beautiful chin Of the dead that groweth not old.

He is ever there, with his dark wavy hair, Unchanged through years of anguish and tears;

His hands are pressed on his passionate breast,
His eyes still plead with foreboding and fears
O, she dwells not at all in that stately hall!
But, day and night, 'neath the cypresses tall,
She opens the coffin, uplifteth the pall,
And the living dead appears!

MIDWINTER.

THE speckled sky is dim with snow,
The light flakes falter and fall slow;
Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale,
Silently drops a silvery veil;
And all the valley is shut in

By flickering curtains gray and thin.

But cheerily the chickadee

Singeth to me on fence and tree;
The snow sails round him, as he sings,
White as the down of angels' wings.

I watch the slow flakes as they fall
On bank and brier and broken wall;
Over the orchard, waste and brown,
All noiselessly they settle down,
Tipping the apple-boughs, and each
Light quivering twig of plum and peach.

On turf and curb and bower-roof
The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof;
It paves with pearl the garden-walk;
And lovingly round tattered stalk
And shivering stem its magic weaves
A mantle fair as lily-leaves.

The hooded beehive, small and low, Stends like a maiden in the snow; And the old door-slab is half hid Under an alabaster lid.

All day it snows: the sheeted post
Gleams in the dimness like a ghost;
All day the blasted oak has stood
A muttled wizard of the wood;
Garland and airy cap adorn
The sumach and the wayside thorn,
And clustering spangles lodge and shine
In the dark tresses of the pine.

The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old,
Shrinks like a beggar in the cold;
In surplice white the cedar stands,
And blesses him with priestly hands.
Still cheerily the chickadee
Singeth to me on fence and tree:
But in my inmost ear is heard
The music of a holier bird;

And heavenly thoughts, as soft and white
As snow-flakes, on my soul alight,
Clothing with love my lonely heart,
Healing with
each bruised part,

peace
Till all my being seems to be
Transfigured by their purity.

MIDSUMMER.

AROUND this lovely valley rise
The purple hills of Paradise.
O softly on yon banks of haze
Her rosy face the summer lays!
Becalmed along the azure sky,
The argosies of cloudland lie,
Whose shores, with many a shining rift,
Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift.
Through all the long midsummer-day
The meadow-sides are sweet with hay.
I seek the coolest sheltered seat,
Just where the field and forest meet,-
Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland,
The ancient oaks austere and grand,
And fringy roots and pebbles fret
The ripples of the rivulet.

I watch the mowers, as they go

Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row;
With even stroke their scythes they swing,
In tune their merry whetstones ring.
Behind the nimble youngsters run,
And toss the thick swaths in the sun.
The cattle graze, while, warm and still,
Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill,
And bright, where summer breezes break,
The green wheat crinkles like a lake.

The butterfly and humble-bee
Come to the pleasant woods with me;
Quickly before me runs the quail,
Her chickens skulk behind the rail;
High up the lone wood-pigeon sits,
And the woodpecker pecks and flits.
Sweet woodland music sinks and swells,
The brooklet rings its tinkling bells,

The swarming insects drone and hum,
The partridge beats his throbbing drum.
The squirrel leaps among the boughs,
And chatters in his leafy house.
The oriole flashes by; and, look!
Into the mirror of the brook,

Where the vain bluebird trims his coat,
Two tiny feathers fall and float.

As silently, as tenderly,

The down of peace descends on me.
O, this is peace! I have no need
Of friend to talk, of book to read;

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" Farther, farther, over the hill, Faintly calling, calling still,

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Into the yard the farmer goes,

With grateful heart, at the close of day:
Harness and chain are hung away;

In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough,
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow,
The cooling dews are falling;-

The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting to his feet,
And the whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,

His cattle calling,

"Co', boss! co', boss' co'! co'! co'!" While still the cow-boy, far away,

Goes seeking those that have gone astray,— 'Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Now to her task the milkmaid goes.
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Looing, pushing, little and great;
About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,

While the pleasant dews are falling;-
The new milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye,
And the white stream into the bright pail flows,
When to her task the milkmaid goes,

Soothingly calling,

So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!"
The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool,
And sits and milks in the twilight cool,
Saying, "So! so, boss! so! so!"

To supper at last the farmer goes.
The apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed.
Without, the cricket's ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;
The heavy dews are falling.
The housewife's hand has turned the lock;
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;
The household sinks to deep repose,
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes

Singing, calling,

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, Murmuring," So, boss! so!"