An order given Requires withdrawal from the front Of regiments that bore the brunt Of morning’s fray. Their ranks all riven Are being replaced by fresh, strong men. Great vigilance in the foeman’s Den; He snuffs the stormers. Need it is That for that fell assault of his, That rout inflicted, and self-scorn-- Immoderate in noble natures, torn By sense of being through slackness overborne-- The rebel be given a quick return: The kindest face looks now half stern. Balked of their prey in airs that freeze, Some fierce ones glare like savages. And yet, and yet, strange moments are-- Well--blood, and tears, and anguished War! The morning’s battle-ground is seen In lifted glades, like meadows rare; The blood-drops on the snow-crust there Like clover in the white-week show-- Flushed fields of death, that call again-- Call to our men, and not in vain, For that way must the stormers go. 3 P.M. The work begins. Light drifts of men thrown forward, fade In skirmish-line along the slope, Where some dislodgments must be made Ere the stormer with the strong-hold cope. Lew Wallace, moving to retake The heights late lost-- (Herewith a break. Storms at the West derange the wires. Doubtless, ere morning, we shall hear The end; we look for news to cheer-- Let Hope fan all her fires.)_ Next day in large bold hand was seen The closing bulletin: VICTORY! _Our troops have retrieved the day By one grand surge along the line; The spirit that urged them was divine. The first works flooded, naught could stay The stormers: on! still on! Bayonets for Donelson! Over the ground that morning lost Rolled the blue billows, tempest-tossed, Following a hat on the point of a sword. Spite shell and round-shot, grape and canister, Up they climbed without rail or banister-- Up the steep hill-sides long and broad, Driving the rebel deep within his works. ’Tis nightfall; not an enemy lurks In sight. The chafing men Fret for more fight: “To-night, to-night let us take the Den” But night is treacherous, Grant is wary; Of brave blood be a little chary. Patience! the Fort is good as won; To-morrow, and into Donelson._ LATER AND LAST. THE FORT IS OURS. _A flag came out at early morn Bringing surrender. From their towers Floats out the banner late their scorn. In Dover, hut and house are full Of rebels dead or dying. The national flag is flying From the crammed court-house pinnacle. Great boat-loads of our wounded go To-day to Nashville. The sleet-winds blow; But all is right: the fight is won, The winter-fight for Donelson. Hurrah! The spell of old defeat is broke, The Habit of victory begun; Grant strikes the war’s first sounding stroke At Donelson. For lists of killed and wounded, see The morrow’s dispatch: to-day ’tis victory._