Fifteen thousand in wounded and killed, At least, is “our loss,” the newspapers say. This loss to our army must surely be filled Against another great battle day. “Our loss!” Whose loss? Let demagogues say That the Cabinet, President, all are in wrong: What do the orphans and widows pray? What is the burden of their sad song? ’Tis _their_ loss! but the tears in their weeping eyes Hide Cabinet, President, Generals,--all; And they only can see a cold form that lies On the hill-side slope, by that fatal wall. They cannot discriminate men or means,-- They only demand that this blundering cease. In their frenzied grief they would end such scenes, Though that end be--even with traitors--peace. Is thy face from thy people turned, O God? Is thy arm for the nation no longer strong? We cry from our homes--the dead cry from the sod-- How long, oh, our righteous God! how long? [Illustration] TREASON’S LAST DEVICE. BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. [Certain politicians proposed, as a means of ending the war, that a new confederacy or union should be formed, from which the New England States should be excluded because of their implacable hostility to slavery and their consequent obnoxiousness to the South. There were many spirited replies to this proposal, the best of which is this poem.--EDITOR.] “Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate ... Yon common cry of curs, whose breath I loathe As reek o’ the rotten fens.” _Coriolanus._ “Hark! hark! the dogs do bark.” _Nursery Rhyme._ Sons of New England in the fray, Do you hear the clamor behind your back? Do you hear the yelping of Blanche and Tray? Sweetheart, and all the mongrel pack? Girded well with her ocean crags, Little our mother heeds their noise; Her eyes are fixed on crimson flags: But you--do you hear it, Yankee boys? Do you hear them say that the patriot fire Burns on her altars too pure and bright, To the darkened heavens leaping higher, Though drenched with the blood of every fight? That in the light of its searching flame Treason and tyrants stand revealed, And the yielding craven is put to shame On Capitol floor or foughten field? Do you hear the hissing voice which saith That she--who bore through all the land The lyre of Freedom, the torch of Faith, And young Invention’s mystic wand-- Should gather her skirts and dwell apart, With not one of her sisters to share her fate,-- A Hagar, wandering sick at heart? A pariah bearing the nation’s hate?