Can manhood fly, And, recreant, brave The silent scorn, the averted eye-- Decked in its chains--a cringing slave? No! rather seek a soldier's grave, And show the tyrant how to die. Then, Southron, on! By all that's dear, By feeble age, and childhood's dawn, By mother's love, and maiden's prayer, The brother's blood, the sister's tear-- One glance to Heaven, then, Southron, on! CIVILE BELLUM. "In this fearful struggle between North and South there are hundreds of cases in which fathers are arrayed against sons, brothers against brothers."--_American paper._ "Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot, Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette; Ring me a ball on the glittering spot, That shines on his breast like an amulet!" "Ah! Captain, here goes for a fine-drawn bead; There's music around, when my barrel's in tune." Crack! went the rifle; the messenger sped, And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. "Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes and snatch From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood; A button, a loop, or that luminous patch, That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud." "O Captain! I staggered and sunk in my track, When I gazed on the face of the fallen vidette, For he looked so like you as he lay on his back, That my heart rose upon me and masters me yet. "But I snatched off the trinket--this locket of gold-- An inch from the center my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." "Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket--'tis she: My brother's young bride--and the fallen dragoon Was her husband--hush! soldier, 'twas heaven's decree; We must bury him there by the light of the moon! "But hark! the far bugles their warning unite; War is a virtue--weakness a sin; There's a lurking and loping around us to-night; Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!" FROM THE ONCE UNITED STATES. _London Once a Week._ "FOLLOW, BOYS! FOLLOW!" BY MILLIE MAYFIELD. Follow, brave boys, follow! 'Tis the roll-call of the drum, And the bright steel's ringing music, With its spirit-stirring hum-- 'Tis the tramp of armed columns, Brazen fronted, drawing near, And the rattle of the sabers In the scabbards, that ye hear; Follow, follow, 'tis the van, boys, So bravely leading on; Follow, follow, to a man, boys, There's glory to be won! Follow, follow, saith the mother-- Follow, follow, saith the wife-- Though ye're dear as our hearts' blood, More precious, far than life; But we would not have ye linger While the hated foeman stands Beside our sacred hearth-stones, And desecrates our lands! We'll forgive the starting tear, boys, 'Tis the jewel of the heart, That ye may not blush to wear, boys, When from loved ones thus ye part.