throbbing hearts, they stood

tial solitude.

Once again the night dropped round them, night so holy and so calm

hands they bore.

Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears,

sound of prayer or psalm.

On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest,

Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast.

WHERE ARE THE MEN?

morning,

And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost.
On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused,
And cursed the murdering weapons I had used.
Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard,
One bespoke age, and one a child's appeared.
In stepped my father with convulsive start,
And in an instant clasped me to his heart.
Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid;
And stooping to the child, the old man said,
"Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again;

slaughter,

Flying for life as the tide 'gan to flow; Hast thou no pity, thou dark rolling water? More cruel still than the merciless foe! Death is behind them, and death is before them; Faster and faster rolls on the dark wave; One wailing cry and the sea closes o'er them; Silent and deep is their watery grave.

From the Welsh of TALHAIARN. Translation of THOMAS OLIPHANT.

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air,
And take possession of my father's chair!
Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame,
Appeared the rough initials of my name,
Cut forty years before! The same old clock
Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock
I never can forget. A short breeze sprung,
And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue,
Caught the old dangling almanacs behind,
And up they flew like banners in the wind;
Then gently, singly, down, down, down they
went,

And told of twenty years that I had spent
Far from my native land. That instant came
A robin on the threshold; though so tame,
At first he looked distrustful, almost shy,
And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye,
And seemed to say, -past friendship to renew,
"Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?"
While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still,
On beds of moss that spread the window-sill,
I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen
Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green,
And guessed some infant hand had placed it
there,

And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare.
Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose;
My heart felt everything but calm repose;
I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years,
But rose at once, and bursted into tears;

Spain."

The child approached, and with her fingers light Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight. But why thus spin my tale, - thus tedious be? Happy old soldier! what's the world to me?

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'ER

FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE," CANTO L

SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking:

Dream of battled fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. "Yet the lark's shrill fife may come

At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum,

Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here; Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,

While our slumberous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveille.
Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen
How thy gallant steed lay dying.

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn,
And yield their dead unto life again;
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn
In golden glory at last may wane.

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb; And under the silent evening skies

Together they followed the cattle home.

KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER.*

CLOSE his eyes; his work is done!
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon or set of sun,

Hand of man or kiss of woman?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight,
Proved his truth by his endeavor;
Let him sleep in solemn night,
Sleep forever and forever.

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars,

Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars? What but death-bemocking folly? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know;