Brave THOMAS the foeman had brushed from his summit the nearest, and now The balm of the midnight's quiet soothed Nature's agonized brow: A midnight of murkiest darkness, and Lookout's dark undefined mass Heaved grandly a frown on the welkin, a barricade nothing might pass. Its breast was sprinkled with sparkles, its crest was dotted in gold, Telling the camps of the rebels secure as they deemed in their hold. Where glimmered the creek of the Lookout, it seemed the black dome of the night Had dropped all its stars in the valley, it glittered so over with light: There were voices and clashings of weapons, and drum beat and bugle and tramp, Quick flittings athwart the broad watchfires that spotted the grays of the camp: Dark columns would glimmer and vanish, a rider flit by like a ghost; There was movement all over the valley, the movement and din of a host. 'Twas the legion so famed of the 'White Star,' and led on by GEARY the brave, That was chosen to gather the laurel or find on the mountain a grave. They crossed the dim creek of the Lookout, and toiled up the sable ascent, Till the atoms black crawling and struggling in the dense upper darkness were blent. Mists, fitful in rain, came at daydawn, they spread in one mantle the skies, And we that were posted below stood and watched with our hearts in our eyes; We watched as the mists broke and joined, the quick flits and the blanks of the fray; There was thunder, but not of the clouds; there was lightning, but redder in ray; Oh, warm rose our hopes to the 'White Star,' oh, wild went our pleadings to heaven; We knew, and we shuddered to know it, how fierce oft the rebels had striven; We saw, and we shuddered to see it, the rebel flag still in the air; Shall our boys be hurled back? God of Battles! oh, bring not such bitter despair! But the battle is rolling still up, it has plunged in the mantle o'erhead, We hear the low hum of the volley, we see the fierce bomb-burst of red; Still the rock in the forehead of Lookout through the rents of the windy mist shows The horrible flag of the Crossbar, the counterfeit rag of our foes: Portentous it looks through the vapor, then melts to the eye, but it tells That the rebels still cling to their stronghold, and hope for the moment dispels. But the roll of the thunder seems louder, flame angrier smites on the eye, The scene from the fog is laid open--a battle field fought in the sky! Eye to eye, hand to hand, all are struggling;--ha, traitors! ha, rebels, ye know Now the might in the arm of our heroes! dare ye bide their roused terrible blow? They drive them, our braves drive the rebels! they flee, and our heroes pursue! We scale rock and trunk--from their breastworks they run! oh, the joy of the view!