THE PICKET BEFORE BULL RUN. 155

We are stronger, and are better,
Under manhood's sterner reign;
Still we feel that something sweet
Followed youth with flying feet,
And will never come again.

Something beautiful is vanished,
And we sigh for it in vain ;
We behold it everywhere,
On the earth and in the air,
But it never comes again.

My

THE PICKET BEFORE BULL RUN.

A Life Sketch.

JOHN WILLIAM DAY.

gun shines in the misty air,

The fog in the vale hangs chill and cold,
The gloaming tree o'er our thicket lair
Heaves up like a standard's fold;
'Tis near the beat of the early drum,

For light pales up to each fading star;
I watch till the crimson morning come
O'er the eastern hills afar.

My mate sleeps on, as a weary child,
In tranquil rest at a mother's knee,
When the hymn floats off in twilight mild,
And the shades of danger flee.

156 THE PICket before bull run.

For him the prayers of a household band

This night o'er the cloudy stair have striven,
Where the great archangels flaming stand,
At the golden doors of Heaven.

'Tis still; my heart, in the early morn,
Yearns fondly back to the closing past;
The joys of youth, in their glory born,
As pearls from the genii cast;
The love that burned as a vestal fire,

Though lit on a shrine of crumbling mould

The chant of fame in a far-off choir,
That down through the years hath rolled.

A stealthy tread in yon thicket's brow

'Tis the foeman stirs each weary limb;
Perchance his thought is a pilgrim now;
Through the gates of memory dim,
He hears the plash of Edisto's wave,
He sees the star of the morning shine
On Yarvo's breast, or evening lave
In the tide of swift Saline.

A shot! aha! 'tis their parting word;
A smothered groan at my side I hear.
O, down the hill, like a prairie herd,
They burst, with a rolling cheer;

And our captain points with waving blade,

"Fall back, boys! back to your farm-house wall. On, on through the woodland's tangled shade!" Up, boy; 'tis our bugle call.

THE SONG OF SEVENTY.

In vain! it calls to thine ear in vain,

For night must fall on thy closing race, The mourner bend in the holy fane

For a martyred Saviour's grace.

The blanket's wet with thy brightening blood,
The spirit's gone from thy half-closed eye;
The Jordan rolls in a stormy flood,

Where thy conquering pinions fly.

He rests in peace 'neath the old oak shade —
We wavered back from the charging foe
And the rebel turf on his brow is laid,

Their winds o'er the slumberer go;
He sleeps, while the bells of autumn toll,
Or the murmuring song of spring flits by,
Till the crackling heavens in thunder roll
To the bugle blast on high. ·

THE SONG OF SEVENTY.

TUPPER.

I AM not- I cannot be old,

Though threescore years and ten
Have wasted away, like a tale that is told,
The lives of other men.

I am not old; though friends and foes
Alike have gone to their graves,

And left me alone to my joys or my woes,
As a rock in the midst of the waves.

157

158

THE SONG OF SEVENTY.

I am not old—I cannot be old,

Though tottering, wrinkled, and gray;

Though my eyes are dim, and my marrow is cold, Call me not old to-day.

For early memories round me throng,

Old times, and manners,

and men,

As I look behind on my journey so long,
Of threescore miles and ten.

I look behind, and am once more young,
Buoyant, and brave, and bold,

And my heart can sing, as of

Before they called me old.

yore it sung,

I do not see her- the old wife there
Shrivelled, and haggard, and gray,

But I look on her blooming, and soft, and fair
As she was on her wedding-day!

I do not see you, daughters and sons,
In the likeness of women and men,
But I kiss you now as I kissed you once,
My fond little children then!

And as my grandson rides on my knee,
Or plays with his hoop or kite,

I can well recollect I was merry as he —
The bright-eyed little wight!

'Tis not long since it cannot be long, My years so soon were spent —

GOOD AND BETTER.

Since I was a boy, both straight and strong;
Yet now am I feeble and bent.

A dream, a dream — it is all a dream;

A strange, sad dream, good sooth; For old as I am, and old as I seem, My heart is full of youth.

Eye hath not seen, tongue hath not told,
And ear hath not heard it sung.

159

How buoyant and bold, though it seem to grow old, Is the heart forever young.

Forever young, — though life's old age

Hath every nerve unstrung;

The heart, the heart, is a heritage
That keeps the old man young.

GOOD AND BETTER.

ANON.

A FATHER sat by the chimney-post,
On a winter's day, enjoying a roast;
By his side a maiden young and fair,
A girl with a wealth of golden hair;
And she teases the father, stern and cold,
With a question of duty trite and old :-
"Say, father, what shall a maiden do

When a man of merit comes to woo?

And, father, what of this pain in my breast?
Married or single — which is the best?"