He spoke of a sire in his weakness cut down, With his last breath the traitor-flag scorning; And his brow with the memory grew dark with a frown That paled the red light of the morning. For days he had followed the cowardly band; And, when one lagged to forage or trifle, Had seared in his forehead the deep Minié brand, And scored a fresh notch in his rifle. But one of the rangers had cheated his fate-- For him he would search the world over: Such cool-plotting passion, such keenness of hate, Ne’er saw I in woman-scorned lover. Oh, who would have thought that beneath those dark curls Lurked vengeance as sure as death-rattle; Or fancied those dreamy eyes, soft as a girl’s, Could light with the fury of battle? To horse! pealed the bugle, while grape-shot and shell Overhead through the forest were crashing; A cheer for the flag--and the summer light fell On the blades from a thousand sheaths flashing. As mad ocean-waves to the storm-revel flock, So on we dashed, heedless of dangers; A moment our long line surged back at the shock, Then swept through the ranks of the Rangers. I looked for the ensign. Ahead of his troop, Pressing on through the conflict infernal, His torn flag furled round him in festoon and loop, He spurred to the side of his colonel. And his clear voice rang out, as I saw his bright sword Through shako and gaudy plume shiver, With, “This for the last of the murderous horde!” And, “This for the home by the river!” At evening, returned from pursuit of the foe, By a shell-shattered caisson we found him; And we buried him there in the sunset’s red glow, With the dear old flag knotted around him. Yet how could we mourn, when each drum’s muffled strain Told of foemen hurled back in disorder,-- When we knew the North reaped her rich harvest of grain, Unharmed by a foe on her border! [Illustration] [Illustration] JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG. BY BRET HARTE. [A Union officer who was with the Eleventh Corps in the battle of Gettysburg says: “During the first day’s fight, an old man, in a swallow-tailed coat and battered cylinder hat, came stalking across the fields from the town, and made his appearance at Colonel Stone’s position. With a musket in his hand and ammunition in his pocket, this venerable citizen asked Colonel Wister’s permission to fight. Wister directed him to go over to the Iron Brigade, where he would be sheltered by the woods; but the old man insisted on going forward to the skirmish line. He was allowed to do so, and continued firing until the skirmishers retired, when he was the last man to leave. He afterwards fought with the Iron Brigade, where he was three times wounded. This patriotic and heroic citizen was Constable John Burns of Gettysburg.”--AUTHOR’S NOTE.]