U.S.5406.52

COMMITTEE OF PUBLICATION.

A. B. R. SPRAGUE, ALFRED S. ROE, WM. H. BARTLETT.

Chas. Hamilton, Printer, 311 Main St., Worcester, Mass.

GETTYSBURG.

BY E. C. L..

Here on this "Rocky Ridge of Gettysburg,"
Where stately mountains rim th' horizon round,
Contending hosts have met; brothers, yet foes,
Who filled the air with war's tumultuous sound.
Those awful sounds have long since died away;
The yawning mouths of cannon now are dumb;
The fields once ploughed by heavy shot and shell,
Bear peaceful harvest 'neath the summer sun.
Where once were tread of horse and print of wheels,
The modest daisy and the soft grass spring:
No longer does the flower-besprinkled turf
With "clattering hoofs and clinking sabres" ring;

But I do think, on many a quiet night,

When the wan moon lights up the misty sky, These sleeping warriors rise, renew the fight, And wake the silence with their battle-cry.

Again the bugle sounds its clarion note

Again the impetuous charge in fierce array,
And countless unnamed heroes fall in death;
Some know them by the blue, some by the gray.
Then Reynolds leads his serried ranks once more,
And filing down from Round Top's crested height,
Come Weed, and Vincent, with heroic mien,
Ready to die for Country and the Right.

Where lately peach-blooms scented all the air,
Black mouths of cannon hurl their sulphurous smell;
And fearful is the struggle, breast to breast,
While fiercer grows the shriek of shot and shell.
The shadowy hosts of Zook and Cross press on
Amid the carnage and the deadly strife;
Again the woodland rings with torturing cries,
As each one yieldeth up a hero's life.
And cannon thundering along the heights,
With dull reverberations shake the air,
And heavy smoke-wreaths hide as with a pall,
The summer beauty of the landscape fair.

The fatal charge of the advancing foe

Is met with bravery equal to his own;
While fiery batteries mow them down like grain,
And all the bloody slope with dead is strewn.

And tossing standards wave defiantly,
Meeting the rebel colors one by one;

A fiercer struggle yet-the brave foe yields-
Their battle-flags are ours; the day is won!
See! as the night yields to the glimmering dawn,
The phantom hosts dissolve like mists away,
Yet listening for the ghostly bugle call,
Ready and eager to renew the fray.

But while these Pennsylvania hills remain,
Here loyal men will turn their steps with pride,
And, pointing to the hallowed soil, will say:

"Here ebbed the fortunes of Rebellion's tide."

FIELD, PRISON AND ESCAPE.

A THRILLING EXPERIENCE.

BY A MEMBER OF POST 10, G. A. R.

No. 1.

On the 17th of Sept., 1861, at the age of nineteen, I enlisted in Co. E, First Mass. Cavalry, and served three years and three months. Leaving the State in 1861, we spent the time until August, 1862, on the "Sunny Isles of the Sea" in the vicinity of Port Royal harbor, South Carolina. The regiment then joined the Army of the Potomac, in the battles of which we engaged and whose fortunes and fate we shared, being identified with its history from the first Maryland campaign until the close of the war. Late in November, 1863, Gen. Meade with the Army of the Potomac crossed the Rapidan river and advanced as far as Mine Run. Finding the enemy strongly fortified, our army withdrew and no great battle was fought. At this time, Nov. 29, a part of our regiment was doing picket duty along the Orange plank road, near Parker's Store. Through the negligence of a picket, we were surprised by Gen. J. E. B. Stuart with a large cavalry force, and without the least warning they were at once in our midst. I was dozing by a small camp fire when I was suddenly aroused by a comrade vigorously shaking me and exclaiming: "Wake up, Charley! Wake up, Charley! They are right here! They are right here!" and the next sound that greeted my ears was-Ping! Ping! Zip! Zip! It seemed as if the thicket all around was full of whistling bullets. As we were under cover of wood we held the enemy at bay some moments, but soon they bore down upon us at a charge and we were swept along as by a storm. was run down on the plank road by a Confederate officer, who eagerly demanded my surrender; and, as he held his revolver within a foot of my face and had a large force at his back, there was no alternative. He called me a Yankee, with a prefix. prefix. I was obliged to dismount, and was marched away to a place where I found ten members of my company, and others, also prisoners. Next day we were. marched to Orange Court House, placed on cars and sent to Richmond. We went on to Belle Isle at 10 o'clock at night, Dec. 1st, 1863. The island is in the James river nearly opposite Richmond, a little farther up the stream. At that time the prison enclosure comprised about three or four acres, surrounded by a ditch six feet wide and two and one-half feet deep, the earth from the ditch having been thrown outside and formed into an embankment, just beyond which sentinels were stationed. Our condition during the winter was deplorable beyond description; we

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