“Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch
    From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood;
  A button, a loop, or that luminous patch
    That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!”

  “O captain!  I staggered, and sunk on my track,
    When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette,
  For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back,
    That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.

  “But I snatched off the trinket,—­this locket of gold;
    An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,
  Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,
    Of a beautiful lady in bridal array.”

  “Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket!—­’tis she,
    My brother’s young bride, and the fallen dragoon
  Was her husband—­Hush! soldier, ’twas Heaven’s decree,
    We must bury him there, by the light of the moon!

  “But hark! the far bugles their warnings unite;
    War is a virtue,—­weakness a sin;
  There’s a lurking and loping around us to-night,
    Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!”

CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY.

* * * * *

THE TWO WIVES.

  The colonel rode by his picket-line
    In the pleasant morning sun,
  That glanced from him far off to shine
    On the crouching rebel picket’s gun.

  From his command the captain strode
    Out with a grave salute,
  And talked with the colonel as he rode:—­
    The picket levelled his piece to shoot.

  The colonel rode and the captain walked,—­
    The arm of the picket tired;
  Their faces almost touched as they talked,
    And, swerved from his aim, the picket fired.

  The captain fell at the horse’s feet,
    Wounded and hurt to death,
  Calling upon a name that was sweet
    As God is good, with his dying breath.

  And the colonel that leaped from his horse and knelt
    To close the eyes so dim,
  A high remorse for God’s mercy felt,
    Knowing the shot was meant for him.

  And he whispered, prayer-like, under his breath,
    The name of his own young wife: 
  For Love, that had made his friend’s peace with Death,
    Alone could make his with life.

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.

* * * * *

THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE.

[September, 1861;]

  We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! 
  From Mississippi’s winding stream and from New England’s shore;
  We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear,
  With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear;
  We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before: 
  We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!