Now, WOOL, hold strongly to the heights! for, lo! the mighty tide

Comes, thundering like an avalanche, deep, terrible, and wide.

Now, ILLINOIS, stand steady! Now, KENTUCKY, to their aid!

For a portion of our line, alas! is broken and dismayed:

Great bands of shameless fugitives are fleeing from the field,

And the day is lost, if Illinois and brave Kentucky yield.

One of O'Brien's guns is gone! -On, on their masses drift,

Till their cavalry and infantry outflank us on the left;

Our light troops, driven from the hills, retreat in wild dismay,

And round us gather, thick and dark, the Mexican array.

SANTANA thinks the day is gained; for, now approaching near,

MIÑON's dark cloud of Lancers sternly men

aces our rear.

Now, LINCOLN, gallant gentleman, lies dead upon the field,

Who strove to stay those cravens, when before the storm they reeled.

Fire, WASHINGTON, fire fast and true! Fire, SHERMAN, fast and far!

SANTANA thinks the day is gained! On, on his

masses crowd,

And the roar of battle swells again more terrible and loud.

NOT YET! Our brave old General comes to regain the day;

KENTUCKY, to the rescue! MISSISSIPPI, to the fray!

Again our line advances! Gallant Davis fronts the foe,

And back before his rifles, in red waves the Lancers flow.

Upon them yet once more, ye brave! The avalanche is stayed!

Back roll the Aztec multitudes, all broken and dismayed.

Ride! MAY!-To Buena Vista! for the Lancers gain our rear,

And we have few troops there to check their vehement career.

Charge, ARKANSAS! KENTUCKY, charge! YELL, PORTER, VAUGHAN, are slain, But the shattered troops cling desperately unto that crimsoned plain; Till, with the Lancers intermixed, pursuing and pursued,

Westward, in combat hot and close, drifts off the multitude.

And MAY comes charging from the hills with his ranks of flaming steel, While, shattered with a sudden fire, the foe already reel: They flee amain!

Now to the left, to stay

the torrent there,

Or else the day is surely lost, in horror and despair!

For their hosts pour swiftly onward, like a river in the spring,

Our flank is turned, and on our left their cannon thundering.

Now, good Artillery! bold Dragoons! Steady, brave hearts, be calm!

Through rain, cold hail, and thunder, now nerve each gallant arm!

What though their shot fall round us here, yet thicker than the hail?

We'll stand against them, as the rock stands firm against the gale.

Lo! their battery is silenced! but our iron sleet still showers:

breast the adverse war!

rious day is ours!

In front, too, has the fight gone well, where upon gallant LANE,

And on stout Mississippi, the thick Lancers charged in vain:

Ah! brave Third Indiana! you have nobly wiped away

The reproach that through another corps befell your State to-day;

For back, all broken and dismayed, before your storm of fire,

SANTANA'S boasted chivalry, a shattered wreck, retire.

Now charge again, SANTANA! or the day is surely lost For back, like broken waves, along our left your hordes are tossed.

Still faster roar his batteries, - his whole reserve moves on;

More work remains for us to do, ere the good fight is won.

Now for your wives and children, men! Stand steady yet once more!

Fight for your lives and honors! Fight as you never fought before!

Ho! HARDIN breasts it bravely! and heroic BISSELL there

Stands firm before the storm of balls that fill the astonished air:

The Lancers dash upon them too! The foe swarm ten to one:

HARDIN is slain; MCKEE and CLAY the last

time see the sun:

And many another gallant heart, in that last desperate fray,

Grew cold, its last thought turning to its loved ones far away.

Speed, speed, Artillery! to the front! - for the hurricane of fire

Crushes those noble regiments, reluctant to retire!

Speed swiftly! Gallop! Ah! they come!

Again BRAGG climbs the ridge, And his grape sweeps down the swarming foe, as a strong man moweth sedge: Thus baffled in their last attack, compelled perforce to yield,

Still menacing in firm array, their columns leave the field.

The guns still roared at intervals; but silence fell at last,

And on the dead and dying came the evening shadows fast.

poor head on my knee;

Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? canst thou see?

O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal, look once more

On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is o'er!"

cloud before the wind

Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind;

Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded strive;

Hide your faces, holy angels! O thou Christ of God, forgive!"

Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall;

Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all!

Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled,

In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold.

But the noble Mexic women still their holy | task pursued,

Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food. Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung,

And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue.

Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours;

Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers;

From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer,

And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

The American forces in this memorable battle totalled 4691, while the Mexicans mustered over 23,000 men. The Mexican losses exceeded 2500. The Americans lost 264 killed and 450 wounded. Theodore O'Hara's famous poem was written to commemorate them.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD

THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;

No more on Life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance

Now swells upon the wind;

No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust;
Their plumèd heads are bowed;
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,