earth.

Proud that yon slowly sinking sun
Saw drowning lips grow white in prayer,
O'er such brief acts of duty done,
As honor gathers from despair.

_Pride_--'tis our watchword, "Clear the boats,"
"Holmes, Putnam, Bartlett, Peirson--Here"
And while this crazy wherry floats,
"Let's save our wounded," cries Revere.

Old State,--some souls are rudely sped--
This record for thy Twentieth Corps,--
Imprisoned, wounded, dying, dead,
It only asks,--"Has Sparta more?"

The tobacco warehouse which we occupied, is on the main street of
Richmond. It was similar to several other buildings and they were all
used as Military Prisons, and all called Libby Prison. It is a large,
three-story building and built as it was, in a most substantial manner,
was well adapted for a Military Prison. The first floor was allotted to
the officers captured, some 70 in number, and the other stories filled
with the men, perhaps 250 of them. In the centre of the lower or
officers' floor is placed the heavy machinery for pressing and
preparing the tobacco, thus dividing the space into two equal sections,
and occupying one-half of the floor space, which was 65 x 45 feet.

The windows on the street floor are well protected by iron bars, while
those opposite are unprovided with bars, and open upon the yard, but
guarded by sentinels stationed there, with orders to shoot any
prisoners in either story who lean out of the windows. Seven men were
shot by these guardsmen while I was confined there. Those dying in the
nearby hospital were taken to this yard for shipment elsewhere in
wagons.

We had no inducement to peer inquisitively from the windows. The
windows on the street, however, afforded us some more interesting
views. Some of the towns-people were almost always outside-lookers-in,
and occasionally someone would, when unnoticed by the guard at the
entrance, show a sign of sympathy. We frequently saw Jeff Davis riding
by, and we always took pains to regale him with pertinent remarks
befitting his high rank, or with some applicable song. One song was
called the Prison Song, to the tune of,--"John Brown's Body lies
a-Slumbering in the Ground." The words, descriptive of our situation, I
do not remember, but the refrain ran,--"Roll on Sweet Moments, Roll on,
and let the poor prisoners go home, go home."

There were ten mess tables made of rough boards, and benches or stools.
The fare was meagre; the