But Rosecrans in the cedarn glade,
  And, deep in denser cypress gloom,
Dark Breckenridge, shall fade away
      Or thinly loom. 
The pale throngs who in forest cowed
  Before the spell of battle’s pause,
Forefelt the stillness that shall dwell
  On them and on their wars. 
      North and South shall join the train
      Of Yorkist and Lancastrian.

But where the sword has plunged so deep,
  And then been turned within the wound
By deadly Hate; where Climes contend
      On vasty ground—­
No warning Alps or seas between,
  And small the curb of creed or law,
And blood is quick, and quick the brain;
  Shall North and South their rage deplore,
      And reunited thrive amain
      Like Yorkist and Lancastrian?

Running the Batteries,
As observed from the Anchorage above Vicksburgh. 
(April, 1863.)

A moonless night—­a friendly one;
  A haze dimmed the shadowy shore
As the first lampless boat slid silent on;
  Hist! and we spake no more;
We but pointed, and stilly, to what we saw.

We felt the dew, and seemed to feel
  The secret like a burden laid. 
The first boat melts; and a second keel
  Is blent with the foliaged shade—­
Their midnight rounds have the rebel officers made?

Unspied as yet.  A third—­a fourth—­
  Gun-boat and transport in Indian file
Upon the war-path, smooth from the North;
  But the watch may they hope to beguile? 
The manned river-batteries stretch for mile on mile.

A flame leaps out; they are seen;
  Another and another gun roars;
We tell the course of the boats through the screen
  By each further fort that pours,
And we guess how they jump from their beds on those shrouded shores.

Converging fires.  We speak, though low: 
  “That blastful furnace can they thread”
“Why, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego
  Came out all right, we read;
The Lord, be sure, he helps his people, Ned.”

How we strain our gaze.  On bluffs they shun
  A golden growing flame appears—­
Confirms to a silvery steadfast one: 
  “The town is afire!” crows Hugh:  “three cheers”
Lot stops his mouth:  “Nay, lad, better three tears.”

A purposed light; it shows our fleet;
  Yet a little late in its searching ray,
So far and strong, that in phantom cheat
  Lank on the deck our shadows lay;
The shining flag-ship stings their guns to furious play.

How dread to mark her near the glare
  And glade of death the beacon throws
Athwart the racing waters there;
  One by one each plainer grows,
Then speeds a blazoned target to our gladdened foes.

The impartial cresset lights as well
  The fixed forts to the boats that run;
And, plunged from the ports, their answers swell
  Back to each fortress dun: 
Ponderous words speaks every monster gun.