AN ARMY CORPS ON THE MARCH.
With its cloud of skirmishers in advance,
With now the sound of a single shot snapping like a whip, and now an
irregular volley,
The swarming ranks press on and on, the dense brigades press on,
Glittering dimly, toiling under the sun--the dust-cover'd men,
In columns rise and fall to the undulations of the ground,
With artillery interspers'd--the wheels rumble, the horses sweat,
As the army corps advances.
BY THE BIVOUAC'S FITFUL FLAME.
By the bivouac's fitful flame,
A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow--but first
I note,
The tents of the sleeping army, the fields' and woods' dim out-line,
The darkness lit by spots of kindled fire, the silence,
Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving,
The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily
watching me,)
While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wondrous thoughts,
Of life and death, of home and the past and loved, and of those that
are far away;
A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground,
By the bivouac's fitful flame.
COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER.
Come up from the fields father, here's a letter from our Pete,
And come to the front door mother, here's a letter from thy dear son.
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