MUSIC IN CAMP.
By John R. Thompson.
The summer clouds lay pitched like tents In meads of heavenly azure; And each dread gun of the elements Slept in its high embrasure.
The breeze so softly blew, it made No forest leaf to quiver; And the smoke of the random cannonade Rolled slowly from the river.
And now where circling hills looked down With cannon grimly planted, O’er listless camp and silent town The golden sunset slanted.
When on the fervid air there came A strain, now rich, now tender; The music seemed itself aflame With day’s departing splendor.
A Federal band, which eve and morn Played measures brave and nimble, Had just struck up with flute and horn And lively clash of cymbal.