He rushed, like a storm, o'er the night-covered

heath,

And swept through their ranks, like the angel of death.

X.

Then hurrah! for thy glory, young chieftain, hurrah!

Oh! had we such lightning-souled heroes to-day, Again would our "Sunburst"* expand in the gale, And freedom exult o'er the green Innisfail.

*Irish national banner.

THE DEATH OF MARMION.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

And soon straight up the hill there rode
Two horsemen, drenched with gore,

And in their arms, a helpless load,

A wounded knight they bore.

His hand still strained the broken brand,
His arms were smeared with blood and sand;

Dragged from among the horses' feet,

With dinted shield and helmet beat,
The falcon-crest and plumage gone,--

Can that be haughty Marmion?

Young Blount his armor did unlace,
And, gazing on his ghastly face.

Said "By Saint George, he's gone!
The spear-wound has our master sped:
And see the deep cut on his head!
Good-night to Marmion!"

"Unnurtured Blount! thy bawling cease;
He opes his eyes," said Eustace; "peace!"
When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare;
"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz Eustace, where?
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare?
Redeem my pennon!—charge again!
Cry, 'Marmion to the rescue!'-Vain!
Last of my race, on battle-plain

That shout shall ne'er be heard again!
Must I bid twice?-hence, varlets! fly
Leave Marmion here alone to die.”

With fruitless labor Clara bound,
And strove to stanch the gushing wound.
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now, trebly thundering, swelled the gale,
And "Stanley!" was the cry;

A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye;

With dying hand, above his head

He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted, "Victory!"

"Charge, Chester, charge! On Stanley, on!" Were the last words of Marmion.

"STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY."

Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,
Stir up the camp-fire bright;

No matter if the canteen fails,
We'll make a roaring night.
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
To swell the brigade's rousing song
Of "Stonewall Jackson's way."

We see him now-the old slouched hat
Cocked o'er his eye askew,

The shrewd, dry smile, the speech so pat,
So calm, so blunt, so true.

The "Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well; Says he, "That's Banks-he's fond of shell, Lord save his soul! We'll give him"-well, That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."

Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off!
Old Blue-Light's going to pray.
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!
Attention! it's his way.
Appealing from his native sod,

In forma pauperis to God

"Lay bare thine arm, stretch forth thy rod! Amen!" That's "Stonewall's way."

He's in the saddle now,--Fall in!
Steady! the whole brigade!
Hill's at the ford, cut off-we'll win
His way out, ball and blade!
What matter if our shoes are worn?
What matter if our feet are torn?
"Quick-step! we're with him before dawn!"
That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."

The sun's bright lances rout the mists
Of morning, and, by George!
Here's Longstreet struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge.

Pope and his Yankees, whipped before,—
"Bay'nets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar;
"Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score!"
In "Stonewall Jackson's way."

Ah! maiden, wait and watch and yearn
For news of Stonewall's band!
Ah! widow, read with eyes that burn
That ring upon thy hand.

Ah! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on!
Thy life shall not be all forlorn;
The foe had better ne'er been born
That gets in "Stonewall's way."

KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES.

E. C. STEDMAN. \

So that soldierly legend is still on its journeyThat story of Kearney who knew not to yield! "Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry and Birney

Against twenty thousand he rallied the field, Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest,

Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine,

Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,

No charge like Phil Kearney's along the whole line.