And thirty lay sick, and some were shot through; For the siege had been bitter, and bloody and long. "Surrender, or die!"—"Men, what will you do?”

And Travis, great Travis, drew sword, quick and strong; Drew a line at his feet

you go?

Will you come?

I die with my wounded, in the Alamo."

Will

Then Bowie 2 gasped, "Guide me over that line!"
Then Crockett,3 one hand to the sick, one hand to his gun,
Crossed with him; then never a word or a sign,

Till all, sick or well, all, all, save but one,

One man. Then a woman stopped praying and slow
Across, to die with the heroes of the Alamo.

Then that one coward fled, in the night, in that night
When all men silently prayed and thought

Of home; of tomorrow; of God and the right,

Till dawn; then Travis sent his single last cannon-shot,

In answer to insolent Mexico,

From the old bell-tower of the Alamo.

Then came Santa Anna; a crescent of flame!

4

Then the red escalade; then the fight hand to hand;

Such an unequal fight as never had name

Since the Persian hordes 5 butchered that doomed Spartan

band.

All day—all day and all night, and the morning, so slow, Through the battle smoke mantling the Alamo.

2. Bowie. A Georgian after whom the bowie knife is named; active in the movement for the independence of Texas.

3.

Crockett. A famous frontiersman and hunter.

4. Escalade. An attack on a fortified place, in which an attempt is made to pass the walls, ramparts, etc., by means of ladders or by scaling.

Spartan band:

5. Persian Hordes At the battle of Thermopylae, 480 B. C., three hundred Spartans under Leonidas, with about six thousand allies, withstood for two days the attack. of an immense army of Persians under Xerxes. At last the Persians succeeded in getting into the rear of the Spartans. Most of the allies sought safety in retreat, but the Spartans stood their ground and were slain to a man.

Then silence! Such silence! Two thousand lay dead In a crescent outside! And within? Not a breath Save the gasp of a woman, with gory, gashed head, All alone, with her dead there, waiting for death; And she but a nurse. Yet when shall we know Another like this of the Alamo?

Shout "Victory, victory, victory ho!"

I say, 'tis not always with the hosts that win: that the victory, high or low,

I

say

Is given the hero who grapples with sin,
Or legion or single; just asking to know
When duty fronts death in his Alamo.

45

THE BATTLE FLAG AT SHENANDOAH

JOAQUIN MILLER

The tented field wore a wrinkled trown,

And the emptied church from the hill looked down On the emptied road and the emptied town,

That summer Sunday morning.

And here was the blue, and there was the gray;

And a wide green valley rolled away

Between where the battling armies lay,

That sacred Sunday morning.

And Custer sat, with impatient will,
His restless horse, 'mid his troopers still,

As he watched with glass from the oak-set hill,
That silent Sunday morning.

Then fast he began to chafe and to fret;
"There's a battle flag on a bayonet
Too close to my own true soldiers set
For peace this Sunday morning!"

"Ride over, some one,” he haughtily said,

"And bring it to me! Why, in bars blood red
And in stars I will stain it, and overhead
Will flaunt it this Sunday morning!"

Then a West-born lad, pale-faced and slim,

Rode out, and touching his cap to him,

Swept down, swept swift as Spring swallows swim, That anxious Sunday morning.

On, on through the valley! up, up anywhere!
That pale-faced lad like a bird through the air
Kept on till he climbed to the banner there
That bravest Sunday morning!

And he caught up the flag, and around his waist
He wound it tight, and he turned in haste,
And swift his perilous route retraced
That daring Sunday morning.

All honor and praise to the trusty steed!
Ah! boy, and banner, and all, God speed!
God's pity for you in your hour of need
This deadly Sunday morning.

O deadly shot! and O shower of lead'
O iron rain on the brave, bare head!
Why, even the leaves from the tree fall dead
This dreadful Sunday morning!

But he gains the oaks! Men cheer in their might!
Brave Custer is laughing in his delight!

Why, he is embracing the boy outright
This glorious Sunday morning!

But, soft! Not a word has the pale boy said.
He unwinds the flag. It is starred, striped, red
With his heart's best blood; and he falls down dead,
In God's still Sunday morning.

So

wrap

this flag to his soldier's breast;

Into stars and stripes it is stained and blest;
And under the oaks let him rest and rest
Till God's great Sunday morning.

46

THE SONG OF THE CAMP

BAYARD TAYLOR

"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,
The outer trenches guarding,

When the heated guns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan,1 in silent scoff,

Lay grim and threatening, under;

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 2

No longer belched its thunder.

1. Redan. A fortification. The story has to do with the Crimean War between England with her allies and Russia, 1854-1856.

2. Malakoff. A Russian tower in Sebastopol, Crimea.

There was a pause. A guardsman said:
"We storm the forts tomorrow;
Sing while we may, another day
Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon:

Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory:
Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang "Annie Lawrie."

Voice after voice caught up the song,
Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,-
Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
But, as the song grew louder,
Something upon the soldier's cheek
Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned.
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters,

With scream of shot, and burst of shell,

And bellowing of the mortars!

3. Severn, Clyde, Shannon. Rivers in England, Scotland, and Ireland.