LAST night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaff'd, and swore;
A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never look'd before.
JULY 9th, 1856.
YES, they return--but who return?
The many or the few?
Clothed with a name, in vain the same;
Right on our flank the crimson sun went down,
The deep sea rolled around in dark repose,
When, like the wild shriek from some captured town,
LET the Arab courser go
Headlong on the silent foe!
Their plumer may shine like mountain snow,
Like fire their iron tubes may glow,