SHERIDAN'S RIDE.

UP

Sheridan's Ride.

from the south, at break of day,

Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door,
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war
Thunder'd along the horizon's bar;
And louder yet into Winchester roll'd
The roar of that red sea uncontroll'd,
Making the blood of the listener cold,
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
With Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town,
A good broad highway leading down:

And there, through the flush of the morning light,
A steed as black as the steeds of night
Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight,
As if he knew the terrible need,

He stretch'd away with his utmost speed;

Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south,
The dust like smoke from the cannon's mouth,
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.

The heart of the steed and the heart of the master
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;

Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet, the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flow'd,
And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind;

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire.

But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire;
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the general saw were the groups
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops;
What was done? what to do? a glance told him both.
Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath,

SHERIDAN'S RIDE.

He dash'd down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there,

because

The sight of the master compell'd it to pause.

With foam and with dust the black charger was

gray;

By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play,
He seem'd to the whole great army to say:

"I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester down to save the day."

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan!

Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!

And when their statues are placed on high,
Under the dome of the Union sky,
The American soldier's Temple of Fame,
There with the glorious general's name
Be it said, in letters both bold and bright:
"Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,

From Winchester, - twenty miles away!"

Ου

Driving Home the Cows.

UT of the clover and blue-eyed grass,
He turned them into the river-lane;
One after another he let them pass,
Then fastened the meadow bars again.

Under the willows, and over the hill,
He patiently followed their sober pace;
The merry whistle for once was still,
And something shadowed the sunny face.

Only a boy! and his father had said
He never could let his youngest go;
Two already were lying dead

Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done,
And the frogs were loud in the meadow

swamp,

Over his shoulder he slung his gun,

And stealthily followed the footpath damp.

Across the clover and through the wheat,
With resolute heart and purpose grim,
Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,
And the blind bat's flitting startled him.

DRIVING HOME THE COWS.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white, And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; And now when the cows came back at night, The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm
That three were lying where two had lain;
And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm
Could never lean on a son's again.

The summer day grew cold and late,

He went for the cows when the work was
done;

But down the lane, as he opened the gate,
He saw them coming, one by one,

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,

Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass, But who was it following close behind?

Loosely swung in the idle air

The empty sleeve of army blue;

And worn and pale from the crisping hair
Looked out a face that the father knew.

For the Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, And yield their dead unto life again;