"Three years and more we've met the foe
On many a gory, hard-fought field,
And still we swear we cannot yield
Till Fate shall bring some deeper woe.

"Three years and more we've struggled on,
Through torrid heat and winter's chill,
Nor bated aught of steadfast will,
Though even hope seems almost gone.

"Ill fed, ill clad, and shelterless,
How little cheer in health we know!
When wounds and illness lay us low,
How comfortless our sore distress!

"These flimsy rags, that scarcely hide
Our forms, can naught discourage us;
But Hunger--ah! it may be thus
That Fortune shall the strife decide.

"But while the corn-fields give supply
We'll take, content, the roasting-ear,
Nor yield us yet to craven fear,
But still press on, to do or die:"

ED. PORTER THOMPSON.

* * * * *

THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG.

[July 3, 1863.]

A cloud possessed the hollow field.
The gathering battle's smoky shield.
Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed,
And through the cloud some horsemen dashed,
And from the heights the thunder pealed.

Then at the brief command of Lee
Moved out that matchless infantry,
With Pickett leading grandly down,
To rush against the roaring crown
Of those dread heights of destiny.

Far heard above the angry guns
A cry across the tumult runs,--
The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods
And Chickamanga's solitudes,
The fierce South cheering on her sons!

Ah, how the withering tempest blew
Against the front of Pettigrew!
A Khamsin wind that scorched and singed
Like that infernal flame that fringed
The British squares at Waterloo!

A thousand fell where Kemper led;
A thousand died where Garnett bled:
In blinding flame and strangling smoke
The remnant through the batteries broke
And crossed the works with Armistead.

"Once more in Glory's van with me!"
Virginia cried to Tennessee;
"We two together, come what may,
Shall stand upon these works to-day!"
(The reddest day in history.)

Brave Tennessee! In reckless way
Virginia heard her comrade say:
"Close round this rent and riddled rag!"
What time she set her battle-flag
Amid the guns of Doubleday.

But who shall break the guards that wait
Before the awful face of Fate?
The tattered standards of the South
Were shrivelled at the cannon's mouth,
And all her hopes were d