3 P.M.

The work begins. 
Light drifts of men thrown forward, fade
In skirmish-line along the slope,
Where some dislodgments must be made
Ere the stormer with the strong-hold cope.

Lew Wallace, moving to retake
The heights late lost—­
                       (Herewith a break. 
  Storms at the West derange the wires. 
Doubtless, ere morning, we shall hear
The end; we look for news to cheer—­
  Let Hope fan all her fires.)_

Next day in large bold hand was seen
The closing bulletin: 

VICTORY!
        Our troops have retrieved the day
By one grand surge along the line;
The spirit that urged them was divine. 
  The first works flooded, naught could stay
The stormers:  on! still on! 
Bayonets for Donelson!

Over the ground that morning lost
Rolled the blue billows, tempest-tossed,
  Following a hat on the point of a sword. 
Spite shell and round-shot, grape and canister,
Up they climbed without rail or banister—­
  Up the steep hill-sides long and broad,
Driving the rebel deep within his works. 
’Tis nightfall; not an enemy lurks
  In sight.  The chafing men
      Fret for more fight: 
  “To-night, to-night let us take the Den”
But night is treacherous, Grant is wary;
Of brave blood be a little chary. 
Patience! the Fort is good as won;
To-morrow, and into Donelson._

LATER AND LAST.

THE FORT IS OURS.

  A flag came out at early morn
Bringing surrender.  From their towers
  Floats out the banner late their scorn. 
In Dover, hut and house are full
  Of rebels dead or dying. 
  The national flag is flying
From the crammed court-house pinnacle. 
Great boat-loads of our wounded go
To-day to Nashville.  The sleet-winds blow; But all is right:  the fight is won, The winter-fight for Donelson. 
      Hurrah! 
The spell of old defeat is broke,
  The Habit of victory begun;
Grant strikes the war’s first sounding stroke
      At Donelson.

For lists of killed and wounded, see
The morrow’s dispatch:  to-day ’tis victory._

The man who read this to the crowd
  Shouted as the end he gained;
  And though the unflagging tempest rained,
    They answered him aloud. 
And hand grasped hand, and glances met
In happy triumph; eyes grew wet. 
O, to the punches brewed that night
Went little water.  Windows bright
Beamed rosy on the sleet without,
And from the deep street came the frequent shout;
While some in prayer, as these in glee,
Blessed heaven for the winter-victory.

But others were who wakeful laid
  In midnight beds, and early rose,
  And, feverish in the foggy snows,
Snatched the damp paper—­wife and maid. 
  The death-list like a river flows
    Down the pale sheet,
And there the whelming waters meet.