ONLY ONE KILLED.

BY JULIA L. KEYES.

Only one killed in Company B,
’Twas a trifling loss—one man!
A charge of the bold and dashing Lee,
While merry enough it was, to see
The enemy, as he ran.

Only one killed upon our side—
Once more to the field they turn.
Quietly now the horsemen ride,
And pause by the form of the one who died,
So bravely, as now we learn.
Their grief for the comrade loved and true
For a time was unconcealed;
They saw the bullet had pierced him through;
That his pain was brief—ah! very few
Die thus on the battle-field.
The news has gone to his home, afar—
Of the short and gallant fight;
Of the noble deeds of the young La Var,
Whose life went out as a falling star
In the skirmish of the night.
“Only one killed! It was my son,”
The widowed mother cried;
She turned but to clasp the sinking one,
Who heard not the words of the victory won,
But of him who had bravely died.
Ah! death to her were a sweet relief,
The bride of a single year.
Oh! would she might, with her weight of grief,
Lie down in the dust, with the autumn leaf,
Now trodden and brown and sere!
But no, she must bear through coming life
Her burden of silent woe,
The aged mother and youthful wife
Must live through a nation’s bloody strife,
Sighing and waiting to go.
Where the loved are meeting beyond the stars,
Are meeting no more to part,
They can smile once more through the crystal bars—
Where never more will the woe of wars
O’ershadow the loving heart.

THE WAR CHRISTIAN’S THANKSGIVING.

Respectfully dedicated to the War Clergy of the United States.

BY GEORGE H. MILES, OF BALTIMORE.

Oh, God of battles! once again,
With banner, trump and drum,
And garments in thy wine-press dyed,
To give Thee thanks we come.

No goats or bullocks garlanded,
Unto Thine altars go;
With brother’s blood, by brothers shed,
Our glad libations flow.
From pest-house and from dungeon foul,
Where, maimed and torn, they die,
From gory trench and charnel-house,
Where, heap on heap, they lie.
In every groan that yields a soul,
Each shriek a heart that rends,
With every breath of tainted air,
Our homage, Lord, ascends.
We thank Thee for the saber’s gash,
The cannon’s havoc wild;
We bless Thee for the widow’s tears,
The want that starves her child!
We give Thee praise that Thou hast lit
The torch and fanned the flame;
That lust and rapine hunt their prey,
Kind Father, in Thy name!

That for the songs of idle joy
False angels sang of yore,
Thou sendest war on earth—ill-will
To men for evermore!
We know that wisdom, truth and right
To us and ours are given;
That Thou hast clothed us with the wrath,
To do the work of heaven.
We know that plains and cities waste
Are pleasant in Thine eyes—
Thou lov’st a hearthstone desolate,
Thou lov’st a mourner’s cries.
Let not our weakness fall below
The measure of Thy will,
And while the press hath wine to bleed,
Oh, tread it with us still!
Teach us to hate—as Jesus taught
Fond fools, of yore, to love;
Give us Thy vengeance as our own—
Thy pity, hide above!

Teach us to turn, with reeking hands,
The pages of Thy word,
And learn the blessed curses there,
On them that sheathe the sword.
Where’er we tread may deserts spring,
Till none are left to slay;
And when the last red-drop is shed,
We’ll kneel again—and pray!