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the bulletin-board this stood;

      Saturday morning at 3 A.m.

      A stir within the Fort betrayed

      That the rebels were getting under arms;

      Some plot these early birds had laid.

      But a lancing sleet cut him who stared

      Into the storm. After some vague alarms,

      Which left our lads unscared,

      Out sallied the enemy at dim of dawn,

      With cavalry and artillery, and went

      In fury at our environment.

      Under cover of shot and shell

      Three columns of infantry rolled on,

      Vomited out of Donelson—

      Rolled down the slopes like rivers of hell,

      Surged at our line, and swelled and poured

      Like breaking surf. But unsubmerged

      Our men stood up, except where roared

      The enemy through one gap. We urged

      Our all of manhood to the stress,

      But still showed shattered in our desperateness.

      Back set the tide,

      But soon afresh rolled in;

      And so it swayed from side to side—

      Far batteries joining in the din,

      Though sharing in another fray—

      Till all became an Indian fight,

      Intricate, dusky, stretching far away,

      Yet not without spontaneous plan

      However tangled showed the plight;

      Duels all over 'tween man and man,

      Duels on cliff-side, and down in ravine,

      Duels at long range, and bone to bone;

      Duels every where flitting and half unseen.

      Only by courage good as their own,

      And strength outlasting theirs,

      Did our boys at last drive the rebels off.

      Yet they went not back to their distant lairs

      In strong-hold, but loud in scoff

      Maintained themselves on conquered ground—

      Uplands; built works, or stalked around.

      Our right wing bore this onset. Noon

      Brought calm to Donelson.

      The reader ceased; the storm beat hard;

      'Twas day, but the office-gas was lit;

      Nature retained her sulking-fit,

      In her hand the shard.

      Flitting faces took the hue

      Of that washed bulletin-board in view,

      And seemed to bear the public grief

      As private, and uncertain of relief;

      Yea, many an earnest heart was won,

      As broodingly he plodded on,

      To find in himself some bitter thing,

      Some hardness in his lot as harrowing

      As Donelson.

      That night the board stood barren there,

      Oft eyes by wistful people passing,

      Who nothing saw but the rain-beads chasing

      Each other down the wafered square,

      As down some storm-beat grave-yard stone.

      But next day showed—

      More news of last night.

      Story of Saturday afternoon.

      Vicissitudes of the war.

      The damaged gun-boats can't wage fight

      For days; so says the Commodore.

      Thus no diversion can be had.

      Under a sunless sky of lead

      Our grim-faced boys in blacked plight

      Gaze toward the ground they held before,

      And then on Grant. He marks their mood,

      And hails it, and will turn the same to good.

      Spite all that they have undergone,

      Their desperate hearts are set upon

      This winter fort, this stubborn fort,

      This castle of the last resort,

      This Donelson.

      1 P.m.

      An order given

      Requires withdrawal from the front

      Of regiments that bore the brunt

      Of morning's fray. Their ranks all riven

      Are being replaced by fresh, strong men.

      Great vigilance in the foeman's Den;

      He snuffs the stormers. Need it is

      That for that fell assault of his,

      That rout inflicted, and self-scorn—

      Immoderate in noble natures, torn

      By sense of being through slackness overborne—

      The rebel be given a quick return:

      The kindest face looks now half stern.

      Balked of their prey in airs that freeze,

      Some fierce ones glare like savages.

      And yet, and yet, strange moments are—

      Well—blood, and tears, and anguished War!

      The morning's battle-ground is seen

      In lifted glades, like meadows rare;

      The blood-drops on the snow-crust there

      Like clover in the white-week show—

      Flushed fields of death, that call again—

      Call to our men, and not in vain,

      For that way must the stormers go.

      3 P.m.

      The work begins.

      Light drifts of men thrown forward, fade

      In skirmish-line along the slope,

      Where some dislodgments must be made

      Ere the stormer with the strong-hold cope.

      Lew Wallace, moving to retake

      The heights late lost—

      (Herewith a break.

      Storms at the West derange the wires.

      Doubtless, ere morning, we shall hear

      The end; we look for news to cheer—

      Let Hope fan all her fires.)

      Next day in large bold hand was seen

      The closing bulletin:

      Victory!

      Our troops have retrieved the day

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