In the flag he saved they wrapped him; in that starry shroud he lies, And the roses, and the lilacs, and the daisies seem to know; For in all that peaceful acre, sleeping ’neath the summer skies, There is neither mound nor tablet that is wreathed and guarded so! JAMES BUCKHAM. (By special permission of the author.) 39 LITTLE GIFFEN Out of the focal and foremost fire, Out of the hospital walls as dire; Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene, (Eighteenth battle, and _he_ sixteen!) Spectre, such as you seldom see!-- Little Giffen of Tennessee! “Take him and welcome!” the surgeons said; Little the doctor can help the dead! So we took him; and brought him where The balm was sweet in the summer air; And we laid him down on a wholesome bed-- Utter Lazarus, heel to head! And we watched the war with bated breath,-- Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death. Months of torture, how many such? Weary weeks of the stick and crutch; And still a glint of the steel-blue eye Told of a spirit that wouldn’t die, And didn’t. Nay, more! in death’s despite The crippled skeleton “learned to write.” “_Dear Mother_,” at first, of course; and then “_Dear Captain_,” inquiring about the men. Captain’s answer: “Of eighty-and-five, Giffen and I are left alive.” Word of gloom from the war, one day; Johnson pressed at the front, they say. Little Giffen was up and away; A tear--his first--as he bade good-by, Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. “I’ll write, if spared!” There was news of the fight; But none of Giffen.--He did not write. I sometimes fancy that, were I king Of the princely Knights of the Golden Ring, With the song of the minstrel in mine ear, And the tender legend that trembles here, I’d give the best on his bended knee, The whitest soul of my chivalry, For “Little Giffen” of Tennessee. FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR. (By special permission of Mrs. Rosa N. Ticknor.) 40 ULRIC DAHLGREN A flash of light across the night, An eager face, an eye afire! O lad so true, you yet may rue The courage of your deep desire! “Nay, tempt me not; the way is plain-- ’Tis but the coward checks his rein; For there they lie, And there they cry, For whose dear sake ’twere joy to die!” He bends unto his saddlebow, The steeds they follow two and two; Their flanks are wet with foam and sweat, Their rider’s locks are damp with dew. “O comrades, haste! the way is long, The dirge it drowns the battle-song; The hunger preys, The famine slays, An awful horror veils our ways!” Beneath the pall of prison wall The rush of hoofs they seem to hear; From loathsome guise they lift their eyes, And beat their bars and bend their ear.