THE night was dark, and the
Glowed red in the reeds by the
And the fitful breeze in the
Made their dusky branches shiver.
By the ruddy light of our
Which blazed in the trench before
We sat and sang till the wild
With the echo of our chorus.
Beyond the stream we could see
Of the fires that the foe had
And here and there in the
Their forms we dimly sighted.
The night wind sighed as our
And we thought of the coming
When the morn should wake, and
the gray dawn break,
With its awful weight of sorrow.
I sit to-night by the camp-fire's
While the dismal rain is falling,
And in my breast beats a heart
By a sense of gloom appalling.
The river flows, and the
On our sad and pallid faces,
And over the ground, with a weary
The sentinel slowly paces.
The earth is red with the blood
of the dead,
Which to-day flowed free as
Till the night came down with a
And put an end to the slaughter.
By the turnpike wide, on the
In field and wood they are lying;
And the air is sown with the
Of the wounded and the dying.
And seated here on this night so
As I gaze on the embers burning,
To that other night by the
My thoughts are forever turning.
I think of one, now the fight is
Whom death from my side has
I know that for him sweet eyes
will be dim,
And a maiden broken-hearted.
LET her lie upon your breast
while she faints,
Where she slept such a short time
O! she's young to be crowned with
Hold her fast, mother; do not let
The roses are not dead on her
There is but a passing chill on
It will go when she smiles—when
Hush! was not that her voice in
She is looking like a babe, as
With her ringlets swept aside and
Ah, mother, keep the tears in
If they fall upon her face she
Did some one break her heart with
Having grasped it at first as a
Did she flutter from his hand
like a bird,
Which goes a little way and then
He remembers the joy of her face,
The love in her smile and the
When, shrinking, she met his
Bring him here; let him look at
O! first came the wonder and the
And the pale hope fading day by
So wistfully she wandered about,
Like a lost child asking its way.
And then came the silence and
And the sighing after wings like
And the proud heart bleeding into
But hiding all its wounds from
It is over, and the tale is all
And the white lamb lies dead in
We may cover up its limbs from
But we can not find a life that
Yet we thought that she moved;
but her cheek
Was but stirred by the breast
where it lay
Heaving a little, while we speak,
With the mute sobs forcing their
Let them come, poor mother! let
You must turn, when your tears
are all done,
To a blank in the sweet talk at
And a name on a little gray
SATURDAY, APRIL 2, 1864.
GENERAL FREMONT has been formally presented as
a Union candidate for the Presidency, upon a platform which describes him as
"the true representative of the instincts of the hour," and characterizes the
policy of the Administration as "irresolute and feeble." The resolutions of the
meeting declare that FREMONT is nominated as its candidate, but no reference was
made to the action of a National Convention.
Mr. GREELEY, who was present,
corrected this omission in his remarks. He did not say for whose nomination he
should work, except so far as his adherence to the one-term tenure implied that
it would not be for
Mr. LINCOLN. But he said frankly that he
intended to give his enthusiastic and hearty support to the candidate of the
Convention. That was an honorable and timely assertion.
With him we are the friends of
all the gentlemen named for the Union candidacy. But we have a preference among
them, which does not in the least involve our personal respect and regard