Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War. Herman Melville

spattered all over.

      "Hurrah for Grant!" cried a stripling shrill;

      Three urchins joined him with a will,

      And some of taller stature cheered.

      Meantime a Copperhead passed; he sneered.

      "Win or lose," he pausing said,

      "Caps fly the same; all boys, mere boys;

      Any thing to make a noise.

      Like to see the list of the dead;

      These 'craven Southerners' hold out;

      Ay, ay, they'll give you many a bout"

      "We'll beat in the end, sir"

      Firmly said one in staid rebuke,

      A solid merchant, square and stout.

      "And do you think it? that way tend, sir"

      Asked the lean Cooperhead, with a look

      Of splenetic pity. "Yes, I do"

      His yellow death's head the croaker shook:

      "The country's ruined, that I know"

      A shower of broken ice and snow,

      In lieu of words, confuted him;

      They saw him hustled round the corner go,

      And each by-stander said—Well suited him.

      Next day another crowd was seen

      In the dark weather's sleety spleen.

      Bald-headed to the storm came out

      A man, who, 'mid a joyous shout,

      Silently posted this brief sheet:

      Glorious Victory of the Fleet!

      Friday's great event!

      The enemy's water-batteries beat!

      We silenced every gun!

      The old Commodore's compliments sent

      Plump into Donelson!

      "Well, well, go on!" exclaimed the crowd

      To him who thus much read aloud.

      "That's all," he said. "What! nothing more"

      "Enough for a cheer, though—hip, hurrah!"

      "But here's old Baldy come again—

      More news!—" And now a different strain.

      (Our own reporter a dispatch compiles,

      As best he may, from varied sources.)

      Large re-enforcements have arrived—

      Munitions, men, and horses—

      For Grant, and all debarked, with stores.

      The enemy's field-works extend six miles—

      The gate still hid; so well contrived.

      Yesterday stung us; frozen shores

      Snow-clad, and through the drear defiles

      And over the desolate ridges blew

      A Lapland wind.

      The main affair

      Was a good two hours' steady fight

      Between our gun-boats and the Fort.

      The Louisville's wheel was smashed outright.

      A hundred-and-twenty-eight-pound ball

      Came planet-like through a starboard port,

      Killing three men, and wounding all

      The rest of that gun's crew,

      (The captain of the gun was cut in two);

      Then splintering and ripping went—

      Nothing could be its continent.

      In the narrow stream the Louisville,

      Unhelmed, grew lawless; swung around,

      And would have thumped and drifted, till

      All the fleet was driven aground,

      But for the timely order to retire.

      Some damage from our fire, 'tis thought,

      Was done the water-batteries of the Fort.

      Little else took place that day,

      Except the field artillery in line

      Would now and then—for love, they say—

      Exchange a valentine.

      The old sharpshooting going on.

      Some plan afoot as yet unknown;

      So Friday closed round Donelson.

      Later.

      Great suffering through the night—

      A stinging one. Our heedless boys

      Were nipped like blossoms. Some dozen

      Hapless wounded men were frozen.

      During day being struck down out of sight,

      And help-cries drowned in roaring noise,

      They were left just where the skirmish shifted—

      Left in dense underbrush now-drifted.

      Some, seeking to crawl in crippled plight,

      So stiffened—perished.

      Yet in spite

      Of pangs for these, no heart is lost.

      Hungry, and clothing stiff with frost,

      Our men declare a nearing sun

      Shall see the fall of Donelson.

      And this they say, yet not disown

      The dark redoubts round Donelson,

      And ice-glazed corpses, each a stone—

      A sacrifice to Donelson;

      They swear it, and swerve not, gazing on

      A flag, deemed black, flying from Donelson.

      Some of the wounded in the wood

      Were cared for by the foe last night,

      Though he could do them little needed good,

      Himself being all in shivering plight.

      The rebel is wrong, but human yet;

      He's got a heart, and thrusts a bayonet.

      He gives us battle with wondrous will—

      The bluff's a perverted Bunker Hill.

      The stillness stealing through the throng

      The silent thought and dismal fear revealed;

      They turned and went,

      Musing on right and wrong

      And mysteries dimly sealed—

      Breasting the storm in daring discontent;

      The storm, whose black flag showed in heaven,

      As if to say no quarter there was given

      To wounded men in wood,

      Or true hearts yearning for the good—

      All fatherless seemed the human soul.

      But next day brought a bitterer bowl—

      On