Oh, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried! Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily, The flower of our knighthood, the whole army’s pride! Yet we dream that he still,--in that shadowy region Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer’s sign,-- Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, And the word still is “Forward!” along the whole line. EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. (By special permission of the author, and of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.) 25 AN UNKNOWN HERO Sweet Malvern Hill is wreathed in flame, From serried ranks the steel is gleaming; Our legions march to death and fame, Their battle flags right wildly streaming. Each hero bares his manly breast, And gallant hearts are fiercely beating; With steady tramp they line the crest O’er which an iron hail is sleeting. Up loom the bastions grim and large Through battle smoke that’s lowering near them; The little drummers roll the charge, And dying comrades raise to cheer them. Twice forty guns with deadly aim Strike down our lines in tones of thunder; Yet still they press, with eyes aflame, Till Valor’s self looks on in wonder. But now the human tide rolls back, A ghastly remnant grim and gory; And countless heroes mark the track Which led them up to heights of glory. But one still presses on amain Where double-shotted guns are frowning, Above, amidst the iron rain, He nobly wins a hero’s crowning. Through all the battle smoke he’d seen The saintly forms of angels bearing The laurel crowns forever green To wreathe the foreheads of the daring. And eager for his priceless crown,-- The bastions scarce a length before him,-- His stalwart form at length went down With Death and Honor bending o’er him. Brave soldier of the Southern clime, No stately song nor brilliant story Shall hand thy name to future time As one who gained immortal glory. But Freedom, with her mailèd hand, Has paused to brush a tear of sorrow, And placed thee with that chosen band Who freely pour their lifeblood for her. And Valor, with her royal brow, And Honor, with her stately bearing, Have surely felt a prouder glow When musing on thy peerless daring. O gallant soldier, all unknown, Though noisy Fame, we know, shall never Proclaim thy deeds through every zone, A hero’s crown is thine forever! WILLIAM GORDON MCCABE. 26 BARBARA FRIETCHIE Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep,