Began the siege of Donelson.

The stronghold crowns a river-bluff,
⁠A good broad mile of leveled top;
Inland the ground rolls off
⁠Deep-gorged, and rocky, and broken up—
A wilderness of trees and brush.
⁠The spaded summit shows the roods
Of fixed intrenchments in their hush;
⁠Breast-works and rifle-pits in woods
Perplex the base.—
⁠ The welcome weather
⁠Is clear and mild; 'tis much like May.
The ancient boughs that lace together
Along the stream, and hang far forth,
⁠Strange with green mistletoe, betray
A dreamy contrast to the North.

Our troops are full of spirits—say
⁠The siege won't prove a creeping one.
They purpose not the lingering stay
Of old beleaguerers; not that way;
⁠But, full of vimfrom Western prairies won,
⁠They'll make, ere long, a dash at Donelson.