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The gray morn | As he mutters a prayer for the chi'
Dawns on the mournful scene; the sulphurous smoke
Before the icy wind slow rolls away,
Of the outsallying victors; far behind,
War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight,
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
"ALL quiet along the Potomac," they say,
Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore,
Guards, garbed in blood-red livery, surround
No sound save the rush of the river;
That force defends, and from a nation's rage
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.
"T is nothing: a private or two, now and then,
All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind
Through the forest leaves softly is creeping; While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping.
There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread
The moon seems to shine just as brightly as th
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree, -
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
"RIFLEMAN, shoot me a fancy shot
Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette, Ring me a ball in the glittering spot
That shines on his breast like an amulet!"
"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead,
And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.
"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch
From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood;
A button, a loop, or that luminous patch
"O captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track,
When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette,
"But I snatched off the trinket, this locket of 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,
"Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket!-'t is she,
Was her husband Hush! soldier, 't was
We must bury him there, by the light of the The soldiers who buried the dead away Disturbed not the clasp of that last embrace, But laid them to sleep till the judgment-day, Heart folded to heart, and face to face.
SARAH T. BOLTON,
"But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite;
LEFT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.
WHAT, was it a dream? am I all alone
In the dreary night and the drizzling rain?
Yes, now I remember it all too well!
We met, from the battling ranks apart; Together our weapons flashed and fell,
And mine was sheathed in his quivering heart.
In the cypress gloom, where the deed was done,
But I heard his death-groans, one by one,
He spoke but once, and I could not hear
The words he said, for the cannon's roar; But my heart grew cold with a deadly fear, O God! I had heard that voice before !
Had heard it before at our mother's knee,
When we lisped the words of our evening prayer! My brother would I had died for thee,
This burden is more than my soul can bear!
I pressed my lips to his death-cold cheek,
And begged him to show me, by word or sign, That he knew and forgave me : he could not speak, But he nestled his poor cold face to mine.
The blood flowed fast from my wounded side,
And then, in my dream, we stood alone
On a forest path where the shadows fell; And I heard again the tremulous tone,
And the tender words of his last farewell.
But that parting was years, long years ago,
MY AUTUMN WALK.
ON woodlands ruddy with autumn
I look on the beauty round me,
For the wind that sweeps the meadows
The golden-rod is leaning,
And the purple aster waves
Full fast the leaves are dropping
Before that wandering breath;
Beautiful over my pathway
The forest spoils are shed;
Beautiful is the death-sleep
Of those who bravely fight
But who shall comfort the living,
The light of whose homes is gone: The bride that, early widowed,
Lives broken-hearted on;
The matron whose sons are lying
I look on the peaceful dwellings
And I know that, when our couriers
Again I turn to the woodlands,
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
Shall claim his promised bride!
The leaves are swept from the branches;
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
BINGEN ON THE RHINE.
A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,
at Bingen on the
Ampelopis, mock-grape. I have here literally translated the botanical name of the Virginia creeper, an appellation too cumbrous for verse.
my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,
"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-
And when he died, and left us to divide his
I let them take whate'er they would,
And with boyish love I hung it where the bright
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)
The dying soldier faltered, and he took that com- For the honor of old Bingen, — dear Bingen on
And he said, "I nevermore shall see my own,
For I was born at Bingen,
not a sister; in the happy
You'd have known her by the merriment that
Too innocent for coquetry,
O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes some
times heaviest mourning!
- too fond for idle
Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon | And upon platforms where the oak-trees grew, be risen, Trumpets he set, huge beyond dreams of wonder,
My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison),
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow
Craftily purposed, when his arms withdrew,
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, -fair Bingen on And it so fell; for when the winds blew right, They woke their trumpets to their calls of might. Unseen, but heard, their calls the trumpets blew, Ringing the granite rocks, their only bearers, Till the long fear into religion grew,
And nevermore those heights had human darers. Dreadful Doolkarnein was an earthly god;
His walls but shadowed forth his mightier frowning;
Armies of giants at his bidding trod
From realm to realm, king after king discrowning.
When thunder spoke, or when the earthquake
"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along, I heard,
And down the pleasant river, and up the slant-
The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk,
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,
But we'll meet no more at Bingen, -loved Bingen on the Rhine."
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody
corses strewn ;,
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen, fair Bingen on
CAROLINE E. NORTON.
WITH awful walls, far glooming, that possessed The passes 'twixt the snow-fed Caspian fountains,
Then, muttering in accord, his host was heard.
Is he then dead? Can great Doolkarnein die?
Or can his endless hosts elsewhere be needed?
THE TRUMPETS OF DOOLKARNEIN.
This silence ushers the dread visitation; Sudden will burst the torrent of his drums, And then will follow bloody desolation.
[In Eastern history are two Iskanders, or Alexanders, who are sometimes confounded, and both of whom are called Doolkar
nein, or the Two-Horned, in allusion to their subjugation of East So did fear dream; though now, with not a sound and West, horns being an Oriental symbol of power.
To scare good hope, summer had twice crept round.
One of these heroes is Alexander of Macedon; the other a con. queror of more ancient times, who built the marvellous series of
ramparts on Mount Caucasus, known in fable as the wall of Gog and Magog, that is to say, of the people of the North. It reached from the Euxine Sea to the Caspian, where its flanks originated the subsequent appellation of the Caspian Gates.]
Doolkarnein, the dread lord of East and West, Shut up the northern nations in their mountains;
Then gathered in a band, with lifted eyes,
The neighbors, and those silent heights as-
Giant, nor aught blasting their bold emprise,
but 't was the piled
And once, when in the woods an oak, for age, Fell dead, the silence with its groan appalling. At last they came where still, in dread array, As though they still might speak, the trumpets lay.
Unhurt they lay, like caverns above ground,
The rifted rocks, for hands, about them clinging, Their tubes as straight, their mighty mouths as round
And firm as when the rocks were first set ringing.
Fresh from their unimaginable mould
They might have seemed, save that the storms had stained them
With a rich rust, that now, with gloomy gold In the bright sunshine, beauteously engrained them. Breathless the gazers looked, nigh faint for awe, Then leaped, then laughed. What was it now they saw?
Myriads of birds. Myriads of birds, that filled The trumpets all with nests and nestling voices ! The great, huge, stormy music had been stilled By the soft needs that nursed those small, sweet noises !
O thou Doolkarnein, where is now thy wall? Where now thy voice divine and all thy forces? Great was thy cunning, but its wit was small Compared with nature's least and gentlest
Fears and false creeds may fright the realms awhile;
But heaven and earth abide their time, and smile.
THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.
WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLeridge.
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?