By George B. Milror, of Harrisburg.

The sun was sinking o’er the battle plain,
Where the night winds were already sighing,
While, with smiling lips, near his war-horse slain,
Lay a valiant chieftain dying!

And as he sank to his long, last rest,
The banner—once o’er him streaming—
He folded ’round his most gallant breast,
On the couch that knows no dreaming.

Proudly he lay on the battle-field,
On the banks of the noble river;
And the crimson stream from his veins did yield,
Without a pang or quiver!

There were hands that came to bind his wounds,
There were eyes o’er the warrior streaming,
As he rais’d his head from the bloody ground,
Where many a brave was sleeping.

“Now, away,” he cried—“your aid is vain!
My soul will not brook recalling!
I have seen the tyrant enemy slain,
And like Autumn vine-leaves falling!

“I have seen our glorious banner wave
O’er the tents of the enemy vanquish’d—
I have drawn a sword for my country brave,
And in her cause now perish!

“Leave me to die with the free and the brave,
On the banks of my own noble river—
Ye can give me naught but a soldier’s grave,
And a place in your hearts forever!”