Lee, John B. Floyd, Henry A. Wise, Lawrence M. Keitt, Judah P. Benjamin, David L. Yulee, and others of the same "school," have been arranged with ours, as though we were deep-dyed as they. While protesting against this wholesale defamation of character, we remonstrate that we have at the most only sought to live by our wits, while this school of banditti, the villains aforesaid, have conspired to ruin a mighty people, and to steal the wealth of an entire republic-to beggar and enslave a continent. No thief at the coffin's side, no operator in the panel crib, no midnight burglar, ever conceived a plot so base. Trusting your honorable Board will perceive this injustice, we respectfully petition that the portraits of the traitors, robbers, and sneak-thieves aforesaid, now in arms against the Government which has provided them with bread, may be removed from the "Rogues' Gallery." And your petitioners will ever pray. BLINKY RILEY. LITTLE FELIX, alias Felix Duval, alias Thomas Wilkins. A GOOD SAMARITAN.-A letter from Washington on the battle of Bull Run, says :-"While in the quarters of the Michigan Fourth this morning, I met with a very intelligent corporal, who became separated from his regiment during the retreat, and was obliged to seek shelter among the bushes. When night came, he wandered along and lost his way in the woods. Being slightly wounded in the leg, his progress was somewhat slow. By Wednesday night he had only reached the environs of Fairfax. Exhausted and completely dispirited, he espied a Confederate picket, and deliberately walked up and told the sentry who he was. To his utter surprise the soldier poured out some whiskey, gave him food, told him where he could find a stack of arms, and where he could sleep during the night in perfect safety in a negro hut. He added: 'I am a Union man, but preferred to volunteer to fight rather than to be impressed. I thus save my property, and will trust to luck. If we meet again in battle, I will not try very hard to shoot you, and mind you don't me.' Truly a good Samaritan, and a wise man."-Phila. Bulletin, Aug. 2. THE LONDON "TIMES" ON AMERICAN John Bull vos a-valkin' his parlor von day, Hand these vos the tidins this news it did tell, "His long-legged boots hat my 'ed 'e 'as 'urled, "I cares for the blacks not a drat more nor he, So spoke Johnny Bull, so he spake hunto me, Who, very much pleased, rubbed his 'ands in his joy, old boy. "Go in, Johnny Times! I will feather your nest; Never mind if you soil it, 'tis foul at the best; Strange guests have been thar, but my cotton is clean, And a cargo is yourn, if you manage it keen." So I pitched hinto Doodle like a thousan' of brick,- PART SECOND. So Bull he vent hin the blockade for to bust; So he sent not 'is vessel hacross the broad sea, SEQUEL AFTER-TIMES. Has Bull vos valking in London haround, MANASSAS. BY FLORENCE WILLESFORD BORRON. A requiem-raise the solemn strain, Speak in the tempest-strife; A feeling thrills the ocean deep; Its night upon the wave; Those "bravest of the brave." They fought where Glory, pale and low, On lost Manassas' field; 'Gainst onward charge and rallying cry, They came-in glory, power, and pride, In triumph and in fame! War-worn and stern-bankrupts of life- Scarred where Death's shot and shell were rife, Before that Southern wall of dead, What horror round their path was spread! To be in fame outdone. Wake, glorious Union-save thy realm! Antæus-like, thy sons rebound, Uprising from the ensanguined ground, Unflinching heart and hand-around Shall peal the battle strain; * Washington. Now, three rousing cheers for the Union! As we are marching on! CHORUS. Glory, halle-hallelujah! Glory, halle-hallelujah! Glory, halle-hallelujah! Hip, hip, hip, hip, Hurrah! -N. Y. Tribune, July 28. THE BATTLE SUMMER. BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. The summer wanes,-her languid sighs now yield The teeming orchard and the waving field More clear against the flushed horizon wall, More near the cricket's note, the plover's call, The sunshine chastened, like a mother's gaze, Reprove us while they calm; For on the landscape's brightly pensive face, War's angry shadows lie; His ruddy stains upon the woods we trace, And in the crimson sky. No more we bask in Earth's contented smile, But sternly muse apart; Vainly her charms the patriot's soul beguile, Or woo the orphan's heart. Yon keen-eyed stars with mute reproaches brand No more harmonious emblems of a land As cradled in the noontide's warm embrace, And bathed in dew and rain, The herbage freshened, and in billowy grace Wide surged the ripening grain; And the wild rose and clover's honeyed cell Exhaled their peaceful breath, On the soft air broke Treason's fiendish yellThe harbinger of death! Nor to the camp alone his summons came, But heavenward bore upon the wings of flame And set his seal upon the statesman's lips And rapt the noblest life in cold eclipse, How shrinks the heart from Nature's festal noon, In the wan light of Sorrow's harvest-moon NEWPORT, R. I., September, 1861. FREMONT'S BATTLE-HYMN. BY JAMES G. CLARK. Oh, spirits of Washington, Warren, and Wayne! And smile on the banner ye cherished of old; When the white flects, like snowflakes, are drank by the seas. As the red lightnings run on the black jagged cloud, Ere the thunder-king speaks from his wind-woven shroud, So gleams the bright steel along valley and shore, Proud sons of the soil where the Palmetto grows, And stolen from man the best gift of his God; And the eyes of humanity blinded with crime. The hounds of oppression were howling the knell tears. But God never ceases to strike for the right, And the ring of His anvil came down through the night, Though the world was asleep, and the nations seemed dead, And Truth into bondage by Error was led. Will the banners of morn at your bidding be furled, Or turn him aside from his goal in the West? Ye may come to our pine-covered mountains for tombs ; But the light ye would smother was kindled by One Go, strangle the throat of Niagara's wrath, Go, cover his pulses with sods of the ground, hound; Then swarm to our borders and silence the notes That thunder of freedom from millions of throats. Come on with your "chattels," all worn, from the soil They die unlamented by people and laws, The mem'ry of wrong from the souls of the race. The streams may forget how they mingled our gore, And the myrtle entwine on their borders once more; The song-birds of Peace may return to our glades, And children join hands where their fathers joined blades: Columbia may rise from her trial of fire, More pure than she came from the hand of her sire; MY MARYLAND."'* [WORDS ALTERED.] BY J. F. WEISHAMPEL, JR. The traitor's foot is on thy shore, His touch is on thy Senate door, Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, Maryland, my Maryland! Hark to the nation's loud appeal, For life and death, for woe and weal, Maryland, my Maryland ! Thou shouldst not cower in the dust, Maryland, my Maryland! Some months ago, a Secession song, set to a fine piece of music, and entitled "My Maryland," appeared in Southern papers, and was played and sung with great pleasure by the Secession ladies. The song had a line of real nerve running through it which rendered it very popular; but the sentiment was so false, and founded upon such gross misrepresentations, that it was offensive to any one not absorbed in the prevailing madness. The song was remodelled-its fire was turned against the enemy-and here we have it, the true utterance of a patriotism that still lives among the people of Maryland-as time will show. See page 93, Poetry and Incidents, vol. 1. Hark, how the bells of Freedom toll, I hear the distant thunder hum, Maryland, my Maryland ! Maryland, my Maryland! Drum out thy phalanx brave and strong, Maryland, my Maryland! Drum forth to balance Right and Wrong, Maryland, my Maryland ! Drum to thy old heroic song, Dear State! Beware the tyrant's chain, Behold Virginia's throes of pain, Maryland, my Maryland! While rapine stalks her wide domain, Our God will make all right again! October, 1861. EIGHTY-FIVE YEARS AGO. A BALLAD FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY. BY A. J. H. DUGANNE. Oh, how the past comes over me- With the drums of the Old Time beating, Out of the streets of Lexington And, back from the lines of Bunker, And pray, with their iron musketry, And, reddening all the greensward, Hearken to Stark, of Hampshire : "Ho, comrades all!" quoth he"King George's Hessian hirelings On yonder plains ye see! We'll beat them, boys! or Mary Stark He broke upon the foe, And he won the battle of Bennington- Down from the wild Green Mountains Bold Ethan Allen stooped, "In the name of the Great Jehovah!" Eighty-five years ago! Out from the resonant belfry Sounded the tongue of a brazen bell, To give the oppressed their freedom, And the voice of brave John Hancock, And out from Sullivan's Island, And the rifle-shots again; Snatched from the ditch below, So, the Old Days come over me— When the land we love lies bleeding, -N. Y. Leader. THE NINETEEN HUNDRED. I. Crossed the deep river, II. Behind, the Potomac Gloomily rushed along; Forests to right of them, Forests to left of them, Threefold outnumbered, Thinner and thinner grew Ranks without fear and true, Falling where firm they stood, Drenching the earth with blood, Wrapped in the smoke of deathNo more Nineteen Hundred; The river behind them, Forests to right of them, Forests to left of them, Forests in front of them, Filled with the storm of hell, Flashing with death-strokes. Bravely the gunners fell, Facing that storm of hellFighting till all went down; Then stood the guns alone, Silent their thunders. Still loud their leader's cry Cheered to the onset; Still bravely made reply All that remained yet Of Nineteen Hundred. Towered that noble form, Still aloft that gray head, Beacon 'mid the battle's storm. Dashed by a traitor's hand, Down sunk that beacon light. Crushed by the rushing mass, Threefold outnumbering, Charging on front of them, Charging on flank of them, Borne to the rugged bluffs, Nothing to stay them; Swamped in the crazy boats, Plunged in the roaring flood, Wounded and dying; Pelted by leaden hail, Fierce and unsparing, Making their passage good, Many bold swimmers; |