nd in the field-hospital tent,
And Petersburg crater, and dim
Lean brooding in Libby, there came--
Ah heaven!--what _truth_ to him.

The Eagle of the Blue.[12]

Aloft he guards the starry folds
Who is the brother of the star;
The bird whose joy is in the wind
Exultleth in the war.

No painted plume--a sober hue,
His beauty is his power;
That eager calm of gaze intent
Foresees the Sibyl's hour.

Austere, he crowns the swaying perch,
Flapped by the angry flag;
The hurricane from the battery sings,
But his claw has known the crag.

Amid the scream of shells, his scream
Runs shrilling; and the glare
Of eyes that brave the blinding sun
The vollied flame can bear.

The pride of quenchless strength is his--
Strength which, though chained, avails;
The very rebel looks and thrills--
The anchored Emblem hails.

Though scarred in many a furious fray,
No deadly hurt he knew;
Well may we think his years are charmed--
The Eagle of the Blue.

A Dirge for McPherson,[13]
Killed in front of Atlanta.
(July, 1864.)

Arms reversed and banners craped--
Muffled drums;
Snowy horses sable-draped--
McPherson comes.

_But, tell us, shall we know him more,
Lost-Mountain and lone Kenesaw?_

Brave the sword upon the pall--
A gleam in gloom;
So a bright name lighteth all
McPherson's doom.

Bear him through the chapel-door--
Let priest in stole
Pace before the warrior
Who led. Bell--toll!

Lay him down within the nave,
The Lesson read--
Man is noble, man is brave,
But man's--a weed.

Take him up again and wend
Graveward, nor weep:
There's a trumpet that shall rend
This Soldier's sleep.

Pass the ropes the coffin round,
And let descend;
Prayer and volley--let it sound
McPherson's end.

_True fame is his, for life is o'er--
Sarpedon of the mighty war._

At the Cannon's Mouth.
Destruction of the Ram Albermarle by the Torpedo-Launch.
(October, 1864.)

Palely intent, he urged his keel
Full on the guns, and touched the spring;
Himself involved in the bolt he drove
Timed with the armed hull's shot that stove
His shallop--die or do!
Into the flood his life he threw,
Yet lives--unscathed--a breathing thing
To marvel at.

He has his fame;
But that mad dash at death, how name?

Had Earth no charm to stay the Boy
From the martyr-passion? Could he dare
Disdain the Paradis