Oh, no; he'll not meet them again, No more will his banner be spread O'er the field of his gallantry's fame; The soldier's proud spirit is fled! The soldier who rose 'mid applause, From the humblemost place in the van-- I sing not in praise of the cause, But rather in praise of the man. Oh, no; he'll not need them again, He has fought his last battle without them, For barefoot he, too, must go in, While barefoot stood comrades about him; And barefoot they proudly marched on, With blood flowing fast from their feet; They thought of the past victories won, And the foes that they now were to meet. Oh, no; he'll not need them again, He is leading his men to the charge, Unheeding the shells or the slain, Or the showers of the bullets at large. On the right, on the left, on the flanks, He dashingly pushes his way, While with cheers, double quick and in ranks, His soldiers all followed that day. Oh, no; he'll not need them again, He falls from his horse to the ground! O anguish! O sorrow! O pain! In the brave hearts that gathered around; He breathes not of grief, nor a sigh On the breast where he pillowed his head, Ere he fix'd his last gaze upon high-- "I'm killed, boys, but fight it out!" said. Oh, no; he'll not need them again, But treasure them up for his sake; And oh, should you sing a refrain, Of the memories they still must awake, Sing it soft as the summer-eve breeze, Let it sound as refreshing and clear; Tho' grief-born there's that which can please, In thoughts that are gemmed with a tear. IN MEMORIAM. Lieut. Sidney A. Sherman,[16] who fell at the Battle of Galveston, January 1, 1863. By MISS MOLLIE E. MOORE. Pillow his head on his flashing sword, Who fell ere the fight was won, The turf looks red where his life was poured-- He fell beside his gun! He died with the gleam in his youthful eye, The fire in his gallant breast, The light was shadowed but could not die, That glisten'd upon his breast! For Liberty claimed his parting breath, And Fame his last trumpet cry: Yes, Freedom hath torn his young name from Death-- The brave can never die! His young breast met, like an ocean rock, The clash of the battle-storm; His proud soul smiled at the tempest shock, That thundered around his form. But his life grew faint when the storm raged high, And ebbed with the dawning sun, And there on the field of victory He fell beside his gun! From the gallant throng there is missed a crest, A sword from the ranks of steel, A hand from the gun whose mad unrest, Hath made our foemen reel. A blithe young voice from the mellow strain, That floated at evenfall; A voice from the camp-song's high refrain, A step in his father's hall: