Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South,
  The dust, like smoke from the cannon’s mouth;
  Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,
  Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 
  The heart of the steed and the heart of the master
  Were beating, like prisoners assaulting their walls. 
  Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;
  Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,
  With Sheridan only ten miles away.

  Under his spurning feet, the road
  Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,
  And the landscape sped away behind,
  Like an ocean flying before the wind;
  And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
  Swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire;
  But, lo! he is nearing his heart’s desire,
  He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
  With Sheridan only five miles away.

  The first that the General saw were the groups
  Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops;
  What was done,—­what to do,—­a glance told him both,
  And, striking his spurs with a terrible oath,
  He dashed down the line mid a storm of huzzas,
  And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because
  The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 
  With foam and with dust the black charger was gray;
  By the flash of his eye, and his nostril’s play,
  He seemed to the whole great army to say,
  “I have brought you Sheridan all the way
  From Winchester down, to save the day!”

  Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan! 
  Hurrah, hurrah, for horse and man! 
  And when their statues are placed on high,
  Under the dome of the Union sky,—­
  The American soldier’s Temple of Fame,—­
  There with the glorious General’s name
  Be it said in letters both bold and bright: 
  “Here is the steed that saved the day
  By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
  From Winchester,—­twenty miles away!”

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

* * * * *

LEFT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.

  What, was it a dream? am I all alone
    In the dreary night and the drizzling rain? 
  Hist!—­ah, it was only the river’s moan;
    They have left me behind with the mangled slain.

  Yes, now I remember it all too well! 
    We met, from the battling ranks apart;
  Together our weapons Hashed and fell,
    And mine was sheathed in his quivering heart.

  In the cypress gloom, where the deed was done,
    It was all too dark to see his face;
  But I heard his death-groans, one by one,
    And he holds me still in a cold embrace.

  He spoke but once, and I could not hear
    The words he said for the cannon’s roar;
  But my heart grew cold with a deadly fear,—­
    God!  I had heard that voice before!

  Had heard it before at our mother’s knee,
    When we lisped the words of our evening prayer! 
  My brother! would I had died for thee,—­
    This burden is more than my soul can bear!