The laughing ripple shoreward flew To kiss the shining pebbles; Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue Defiance to the Rebels. And yet once more the bugle sang Above the stormy riot; No shout upon the evening rang-- There reigned a holy quiet. The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood Poured o’er the glistening pebbles; All silent now the Yankees stood, All silent stood the Rebels. No unresponsive soul had heard That plaintive note’s appealing, So deeply “Home, Sweet Home” had stirred The hidden founts of feeling. Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees, As by the wand of fairy, The cottage ’neath the live oak trees, The cabin by the prairie. Or cold, or warm, his native skies Bend in their beauty o’er him; Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, His loved ones stand before him. As fades the iris after rain In April’s tearful weather, The vision vanished as the strain And daylight died together. But Memory, waked by Music’s art, Expressed in simple numbers, Subdued the sternest Yankee’s heart, Made light the Rebel’s slumbers. And fair the form of Music shines-- That bright celestial creature-- Who still ’mid War’s embattled lines Gave this one touch of Nature. [Southern.] [Illustration] [Illustration] FREDERICKSBURG. (December, 1862.) BY W. F. W. Eighteen hundred and sixty-two,-- That is the number of wounded men Who, if the telegraph’s tale be true, Reached Washington City but yestere’en. And it is but a handful, the telegrams add, To those who are coming by boats and by cars, Weary and wounded, dying and sad; Covered--but only in front--with scars. Some are wounded by Minie shot, Others are torn by the hissing shell, As it burst upon them as fierce and as hot As a demon spawned in a traitor’s hell. Some are pierced by the sharp bayonet, Others are crushed by the horses’ hoof, Or fell ’neath the shower of iron which met Them as hail beats down on an open roof. Shall I tell what they did to meet this fate? Why was this living death their doom? Why did they fall to this piteous state Neath the rifle’s crack and the cannon’s boom? Orders arrived, and the river they crossed; Built the bridge in the enemy’s face; No matter how many were shot and lost, And floated--sad corpses--away from the place. Orders they heard, and they scaled the height, Climbing right “into the jaws of death”; Each man grasping his rifle-piece tight, Scarcely pausing to draw his breath. Sudden flashed on them a sheet of flame From hidden fence and from ambuscade; A moment more--(they say this is fame)-- A thousand dead men on the grass were laid.