less repose,

turbed repose.


On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all | And they robed the icy body, while 1 the rest,

maiden shame Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly Changed the pallor of their foreheads w folded on his breast.

of lambent flame. Death had touched him very gently, and he lay For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that as if in sleep;

hour of sorest need, Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that And they felt that Death was holy, and it sanc

tified the deed. slumber calm and deep.

But they smiled and kissed each other when For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance

their new strange task was o'er, to the face,

And the form that lay before them its unwonted And the hand of cunning sculptor could have

garments wore. added naught of grace

Then with slow and weary labor a small grave To the marble limbs so perfect in their passion- they hollowed out,

And they lined it with the withered grass and Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, leaves that lay about. unpitying foes.

But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy And the broken drum beside him all his life's work was done, short story told :

And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide

the sun. o'er him rolled.

And then those little maidens — they were

children of our foes Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem Laid the body of our drummer-boy to undis

of stars, While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery

planet Mars. Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. whispering low,

To fall on the battle-field fighting for my dear country, - that Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the would not be hard." – THE NEIGHBOKS. brooklet's murmuring flow?

O no, no, - let me lie

Not on a field of battle when I die ! Clinging closely to each other, striving never to Let not the iron tread look round

Of the mad war-horse crush my helméd head; As they passed with silent shudder the pale Nor let the reeking knife, corses on the ground,

That I have drawn against a brother's life,

Be in my hand when Death Came two little maidens, - sisters, — with a Thunders along, and tramples me beneath light and hasty tread,

His heavy squadron's heels, And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half Or gory felloes of his cannon’s wheels. of dread.

From such a dying bed, And they did not pause nor falter till, with Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red, throbbing hearts, they stood

And the bald eagle brings Where the drummer-boy was lying in that The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings partial solitude.

To sparkle in my sight,

0, never let my spirit take her flight ! They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's scanty store,

I know that beauty's eye And two heavy iron shovels in their slender Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly, hands they bore.

And brazen helmets dance,

And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance; Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing

I know that bards have sung, back the pitying tears,

And people shouted till the welkin rung, For they had no time for weeping, nor for any

In honor of the brave girlish fears.

Who on the battle-field have found a grave;

I know that o'er their bones

Have grateful hands piled monumental stones.
Some of those piles I've seen :
The one at Lexington upon the green
Where the first blood was shed,
And to my country's independence led;
And others, on our shore,

The "Battle Monument" at Baltimore,
And that on Bunker's Hill.


Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still
Thy "tomb," Themistocles,

That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,
And which the waters kiss

That issue from the gulf of Salamis.
And thine, too, have I seen,

What, to the parting soul,

The mellow note of bugles? What the roll

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Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green,
That, like a natural knoll,

Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll,
Watched by some turbaned boy,

Upon the margin of the plain of Troy.
Such honors grace the bed,

I know, whereon the warrior lays his head,
And hears, as life ebbs out,

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

The conquered flying, and the conqueror's shout; And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

But as his eye grows dim,

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

What is a column or a mound to him?

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!


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Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on
the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;

And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride :

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.


AH! whence yon glare, That fires the arch of heaven?-that dark red smoke Blotting the silver moon? The stars are quenched In darkness, and pure and spangling snow Gleams faintly through the gloom that gathers round!

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there,
In proud and vigorous health; of all the hearts
That beat with anxious life at sunset there,
How few survive, how few are beating now!
All is deep silence, like the fearful calm
That slumbers in the storm's portentous pause;
Save when the frantic wail of widowed love
Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan
With which some soul bursts from the frame of clay
Wrapt round its struggling powers.

Hark to that roar, whose swift and deafening peals
In countless echoes through the mountains ring,
Startling pale midnight on her starry throne!
Now swells the intermingling din; the jar
Frequent and frightful of the bursting bomb;
The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout,
The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men
Inebriate with rage; - loud, and more loud
The discord grows; till pale death shuts the scene,
And o'er the conqueror and the conquered draws
His cold and bloody shroud. - Of all the men

gray morn

As he mutters a prayer for the chi)
Dawns on the mournful scene; the sulphurous

For their mother, — may Heav smoke Before the icy wind slow rolls away,

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as the And the bright beams of frosty morning dance That night when the love yet unspoken Along the spangling snow. There tracks of blood Leaped up to his lips, - when low, murmured vows Even to the forest's depth, and scattered arms, Were pledged to be ever unbroken; And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful

He dashes off tears that are welling, path

And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
Of the outsallying victors; far behind,

As if to keep down the heart-swelling.
Black ashes note where their proud city stood.
Within yon forest is a gloomy glen,

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,
Each tree which guards its darkness from the day

The footstep is lagging and weary ; Waves o'er a warrior's tomb.

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,

Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.
War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, Hark! wasit the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
The lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade, Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing ?
And to those royal murderers whose mean It looked like a rifle : “Ha! Mary, good by!”

And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.
Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore,
The bread they eat, the staff on which they lean. All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
Guards, garbed in blood-red livery, surround

No sound save the rush of the river ;

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,
Their palaces, participate the crimes
That force defends, and from a nation's rage

The picket 's off duty forever.
Secure the crown, which all the curses reach
That famine, frenzy, woe, and penury breathe.
These are the hired bravos who defend
The tyrant's throne.


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“RIFLEMAN, shoot me a fancy shot

Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette, THE PICKET-GUARD.

Ring me a ball in the glittering spot

That shines on his breast like an amulet!" "All quiet along the Potomac,” they say,

Except now and then a stray picket “Ah, captain ! here goes for a fine-drawn bead, Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, There's music around when my barrel 's in By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

tune!" 'T is nothing : a private or two, now and then,

Crack ! went the rifle, the messenger sped, Will not count in the news of the battle ;

And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. Not an officer lost, — only one of the men, Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle.” “Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and

snatch All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

From your victim some trinket to handsel first Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ;

blood; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, A button, a loop, or that luminous patch

Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!" A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping ; O captain ! I staggered, and sunk on my track, While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette, Keep guard, — for the army is sleeping. For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back,

That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet. There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, “But I snatched off the trinket, this locket of
And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed, gold ;
Far away in the cot on the mountain.

An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, His musket falls slack ; his face, dark and grim, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Grows gentle with memories tender,

Of a beautiful lady in bridal array.”

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“Ha ! rifleman, fling me the locket !- 't is she, , But that parting was years, long years ago, My brother's young bride, and the fallen He wandered away to a foreign land; dragoon

And our dear old mother will never know Was her husband - Hush! soldier, 't was That he died to-night by his brother's hand.

Heaven's decree, We must bury him there, by the light of the The soldiers who buried the dead away moon !

Disturbed not the clasp of that last embrace,

But laid them to sleep till the judgment-day, “But, hark ! the far bugles their warnings unite; Heart folded to heart, and face to face. War is a virtue, - weakness a sin ;

SARAH T. BOLTOK, There's a lurking and loping around us to-night; Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in !”


On woodlands ruddy with autumn

The amber sunshine lies ;

I look on the beauty round me,
What, was it a dream ? am I all alone

And tears come into my eyes.
In the dreary night and the drizzling rain ?
Hist! - ah, it was only the river's moan ;

For the wind that sweeps the meadows
They have left me behind with the mangled

Blows out of the far Southwest,

Where our gallant men are fighting,

And the gallant dead are at rest.
Yes, now I remember it all too well !
We met, from the battling ranks apart ;

The golden-rod is leaning,

And the purple aster waves
Together our weapons flashed and fell,
And mine was sheathed in his quivering heart.

In a breeze from the land of battles,

A breath from the land of graves. In the cypress gloom, where the deed was done,

Full fast the leaves are dropping It was all too dark to see his face ;

Before that wandering breath; But I heard his death-groans, one by one,

As fast, on the field of battle, And he holds me still in a cold embrace.

Our brethren fall in death.

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And I know that, when our couriers
With news of victory come,
They will bring a bitter message
Of hopeless grief to some.

Again I turn to the woodlands,
And I shudder as I see
The mock-grape's blood-red banner
Hung out on the cedar-tree;


And I think of days of slaughter,

And the night-sky red with flames, On the Chattahoochee's meadows,

And the wasted banks of the James.

O for the fresh spring-season,

When the groves are in their prime, And far away in the future

Is the frosty autumn-time!

O for that better season,

When the pride of the foe shall yield, And the hosts of God and Freedom March back from the well-won field;

And the matron shall clasp her first-born
With tears of joy and pride;
And the scarred and war-worn lover

Shall claim his promised bride!

The leaves are swept from the branches;
But the living buds are there,
With folded flower and foliage,
To sprout in a kinder air.


October, 1864.


A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was
dearth of woman's tears;
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-
blood ebbed away,

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at Bingen on the

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"Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age;

For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage.

For my father was a soldier, and even as a child

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of strug-
gles fierce and wild;

And when he died, and left us to divide his
scanty hoard,
but kept

I let them take whate'er they would,
my father's sword;

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright
light used to shine,

On the cottage wall at Bingen, - calm Bingen on the Rhine.


To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine)

might say.

The dying soldier faltered, and he took that com- For the honor of old Bingen, — dear Bingen on
rade's hand,
the Rhine.

And he said, "I nevermore shall see my own,
my native land;
Take a message, and a token, to some distant
friends of mine,

For I was born at Bingen,

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not a sister; in the happy

"There's another,
days gone by

You'd have known her by the merriment that
sparkled in her eye;

Too innocent for coquetry,

Ampelopis, mock-grape. I have here literally translated the botanical name of the Virginia creeper, an appellation too cumbrous for verse.


O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes some

times heaviest mourning!

- too fond for idle

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