Gather round him where he’s lying,
Hush your footsteps, whisper low,
For a soldier here is dying,
In the sunset’s radiant glow.
Beating, beating, slowly beating,
Runs the life-blood through his frame;
Swift the soldier’s breath is fleeting,
And he calls his mother’s name:
“Mother, mother, come and kiss me,
Ere my spirit fades away,
For I know you oft will miss me,
When you watch the sinking day.
“Brother, sister, nearer, nearer!
Place, oh, place your hands in mine,
You whose love than life was dearer,
Let your arms around me twine.
“Father, see the sun is fading
From the hill-tops of the west,
And the valley night is shading—
Farewell, loved ones, I’m at rest.”
Dying, dying! yes, he’s dying!
Close the eyelids, let him rest;
No more sorrow, no more sighing,
E’er again shall heave his breast.

Sleeping, sleeping, calmly sleeping,
In the church-yard cold and drear,
And the wintry winds are heaping
O’er him leaflets brown and sear.
And he’s resting, where forever
Clang of trumpet, roll of drum,
Roar of cannon, never, never,
Never more to him shall come.

PENSACOLA: TO MY SON.

BY M. S.

Beautiful the land may be,
Its groves of palm, its laurel-trees,
And o’er the smiling, murm’ring sea,
Soft may blow the Southern breeze—
And land, and sea, and balmy air,
May make a home of beauty there.
And bright beneath Floridian sky,
The world to thy young fancy seems:
I see the light that fills thine eye,
I know what spirit rules thy dreams;
But flower-gemmed shore and rippling sea
Are darker than the grave to me;
For storms are lowering in that sky,
And sad may be that fair land’s doom;
Full soon, perhaps, the battle-cry
May wake the cannon’s fearful boom,
And shot and shell from o’er the waves
May plow the rose’s bed for graves.
And we, whose dear ones cluster there,
We, mothers, who have let them go—
Our all, perhaps—how shall we bear
That which another week may show?
The love which made our lives, all gone,
Our hearts left desolate and lone!
Country! what to me that name,
Should I in vain demand my son?
Glory! what a nation’s fame?
Home! home, without thee, I have none;
Ah! stay—this Southern land not mine?
The land that e’en in death is thine!
A country’s laurel-wreath for thee,
A hero’s grave—my own! my own!
And neither land nor home for me,
Because a mother’s hope is gone?
Traitor I am! God’s laws command
That, next to Heaven, our Native Land!
And I will not retract—ah! no—
What, in my pride of home, I said,
That, “I would give my son to go
Where’er our Hero Ruler led!”
The mother’s heart may burst—but still,
Make it, O God, to know Thy will.
New Orleans, La.

THE VOLUNTEERS TO THE “MELISH.”

BY WM. C. ESTRES.

Come forth, ye gallant heroes,
Rub up each rusty gun,
And face these hireling Yankees,
Who live by tap of drum.
We Volunteers are wearied,
By a twelve months’ “sojourn”;
We want to rest a little,
And then we’ll fight “again.”

We’ve won some five pitched battles,
But will yield you our “posish”;
And if you want some glory,
Why pitch in now, “Melish.”
Don’t refuse to leave your spouses;
Our own are just as dear,
And each lonely little woman
Longs for her Volunteer.
Don’t mind your sobbing sweethearts;
For though ’tis hard to part,
We’ll volunteer to cheer ’em,
And console each troubled heart.
For the sake of old Virginia,
Come and fight! that’s if you can,
And let your prattling babies
Know their daddy was a man.
For you we’ve fought and struggled;
Had “no furloughs”—nary one—
We want a little resting,
And so we’re coming home.
Then forward, bold Militia!
“If you’re coming, come along,”
Or, by the gods! we’ll force you out
To your duty—right or wrong.