HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

Born in New York City 1819

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 Colours 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 say,-
Not 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 know,— The orchard is just beginning to set, They mow'd 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 pass'd o'er,
And the tatter'd 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 march'd 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 overhead-
Muster 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 hail'd 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, a wreck,-

"'Tis my watch!" he would mutter-

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"I must go upon deck!"

Ay, 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,

Launch'd from the weather-railing,
Swift as the eye can mark,
The ghastly, shotted hammock
Plunges, away from the shark,
Down, a thousand fathoms,
Down into the dark!

A thousand summers and winters
The stormy Gulf shall roll
High o'er his canvas coffin,-

But, silence to doubt and dole! There's a quiet harbour somewhere For the poor a-weary soul.

Free the fetter'd engine!
Speed the tireless shaft!
Loose to'gallant and topsail!-
The breeze is fair abaft.

Blue sea all around us,

Blue sky bright o'erhead,— Every man to his duty!

We have buried our dead.

QU'IL MOURUT!

Nor a sob, not a tear be spent

For those who fell at his side,

But a moan and a long lament

For him-who might have died!

Who might have lain, as Harold lay,
A King, and in state enow,-
Or slept with his peers, like Roland
In the Straits of Roncesvaux.

ALICE CARY.

Born near Cincinnati, Ohio, 1820-died 1871.

THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE HILL.

O MEMORY! be sweet to me,

Take, take all else at will,

So thou but leave me safe and sound,
Without a token my heart to wound,
The little house on the hill!

Take all of best from east to west,
So thou but leave me still
The chamber, where in the starry light
I used to lie awake at night

And list to the whip-poor-will.

Take violet-bed, and rose-tree red,

And the purple flags by the mill, The meadow gay, and the garden-ground; But leave, O leave me safe and sound The little house on the hill!

The daisy-lane, and the dove's low plain,
And the cuckoo's tender bill,—

Take one and all, but leave the dreams
That turn'd the rafters to golden beams,
In the little house on the hill!

The gables brown, they have tumbled down,
And dry is the brook by the mill;
The sheets I used with care to keep
Have wrapt my dead for the last long sleep
In the valley, low and still.

But, Memory! be sweet to me,
And build the walls, at will,
Of the chamber where I used to mark,
So softly rippling over the dark,
The song of the whip-poor-will!