How quiet you are! Is cold as his own.

There, lift off your arms; let him come to the breast
Where first he was lulled, with my soul's hymn to rest.
Your heart never thrilled to your lover's fond kiss
As mine to his baby-touch; was it for this?

He was yours, too; he loved you? Yes, yes, you're right.

Forgive me, my daughter, I'm maddened to-night. Don't moan so, dear child; you're young, and your

years

May still hold fair hopes; but the old die of tears.
Yes, take him again ;-ah, don't lay your face there;
See the blood from his wound has stained your loose
hair.

Has she fainted ?—her cheek
Say a word to me-speak!

Am I crazed? Is she dead? Has her heart broke first?
Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is worst.
I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone with these dead;
Those corpses are stirring; God help my poor head!

I'll sit by my children until the men come
To bury the others, and then we'll go home.
Why, the slain are all dancing! Dearest, don't move.
Keep away from my boy; he's guarded by love.
Lullaby. lullaby; sleep, sweet darling, sleep!
God and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep!
-Anonymous.

UP

P from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore,

Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door,
The terrible grumble and rumble, and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.
And wider still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar;
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled.
Making the blood of the listener cold,
As he thought of that stake in that fiery fray,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town

A good, broad highway leading down;
And there through the flush of the morning light,

A steed as black as the steeds of night,
Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight,
As if he knew the terrible need,

He stretched away with his utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away,

Still sprung from those hoofs, thundering south,
The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth;
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.

The heart of the steed, and the heart of the master

These in the robings of glory,

Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet : Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the laurel, the Blue,

Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours,
The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers,

Alike for the friend and the foe:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the roses, the Blue,
Under the lilies, the Gray.

So, with an equal splendor,
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,

On the blossom blooming for all :

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Broidered with gold, the Blue,

Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain :
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Wet with the rain, the Blue,
Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done;
In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won :
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the blossoms, the Blue,

Under the garlands, the Gray.
No more shall the war cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever,
When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Love and tears for the Blue,

Tears and love for the Gray.
-F. M.

There, lift off your arms; let him come to the breast
Where first he was lulled, with my soul's hymn to rest.
Your heart never thrilled to your lover's fond kiss
As mine to his baby-touch; was it for this?

He was yours, too; he loved you? Yes, yes, you're right.

Forgive me, my daughter, I'm maddened to-night. Don't moan so, dear child; you're young, and your years

May still hold fair hopes; but the old die of tears.
Yes, take him again;-ah, don't lay your face there;
See the blood from his wound has stained your loose
hair.

O the memory of the dead,
Lay above the honored head,

Flowers, sweet flowers, Over hearts that ceased to beat, In the battle's smoke and heat, Scatter flowers, rare flowers.

To the memory of that time,

Brave soldiers touched the battle line,

Gather flowers, bright flowers.

Let their fragrant incense rise,
To greet their souls in Paradise,
Where flowers never die.

Blue and the Gray.

To the memory noble sentiments, have shown themselv

alike on the graves of the Confederate and

[P from the South at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,

The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door,
The terrible grumble and rumble, and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar;
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold,
As he thought of that stake in that fiery fray,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

Under the

Waiting Broidered Mellowe

No more sha

Or the win They banish When they Under t Waiti Love an

their walls,

ails; med to full

ce ire,

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away.

Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan! Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man

placed on high,

And when their statues are Under the dome of the Union skyThe American soldiers' Temple of Fame, There with the glorious general's name, Be it said in letters both bold and bright: "Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the light, From Winchester-twenty miles away."

ue and the Gray.

-Thomas Buchanan Read

oble sentiments, have shown themselves impartial in their offerings made to e on the graves of the Confederate and the Natal soldiers.]

Under the sad and the dew, Waiting the ment day; Broidered with gull the Blue,

Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

calleth,
On forest and held of grain,
With an emermer talleth
The axip of the rain:
Under the sand and the dew
Wat the judgment day;

So, when the summer

Wer with the rain, the Blue.

Wer with the rain, the Gray.
Sadly, bet t with upbraiding,
eers deed was done:
In the sun of the years that are
No bram battle was won:
Under the sod and the dew,

11ating the judgment day
L'er the blossoms, the Blue,
Lander the garlands, the Gray.
Nor shall the war cry sever,

the winding rivers be red;

They banish our anger forever,

fading,

When they laurel the graves of our dead! L'ader the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray.

-F. M...

409

R.

bor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, est from all petty vexations that meet us, est from sin promptings that ever entreat us, Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. Jork-and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow; York-thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;

ie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow; Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

Labor is health! Lo, the husbandman reaping,
How through his veins goes the life current leaping!
How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping,
True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides.
Labor is wealth! In the sea the pearl groweth ;
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth .
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ;
Temple and statue the marble block hides.
-F. S. Osgood.

ents of Labor.

hand as well as toil of the head-in toil to vidual life, as well as in toil to promote some tends to supply man's wants, to increase man's rd, all labor that is honest-is honorable too. brass, and makes the "wilderness rejoice and , and scatters the seeds, and reaps the harvest, d, the staff of life. Labor, tending the pastures ng the soil, provides with daily sustenance the

Labor gathers the gossamer web of the catere from the flock, and weaves it into raiment soft le prince and the gray gown of the peasant being and splits the slate, and quarries the stone,

COME, cheerily, men, pile on the rails.

And stir the camp-fires bright!

No matter if the canteen fails,

We'll have a roaring night!
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
To swell the brigade's rousing song

Of Stonewall Jackson's way!

We see him now-his old slouched hat
Cocked o'er his eye askew,

His shrewd, dry smile, his speech so pat,
So firm, so bold, so true:

The blue light Elder knows 'em well,
Says he, "That's Banks-he's fond of shell!
Lord save his soul-we'll give him hell!"
That's Stonewall Jackson's way!

Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Hats off!
Old Stonewall's going to pray!

Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!

Attention! 'Tis his way!

Kneeling upon his native sod

In forma pauperis to God

"Stretch forth thine arm! Lay bare thy rod! Amen!" That's Stonewall's way!

He's in the saddle now-"Fall in!

Steady, the whole brigade!
Hill's at the Ford, cut off! We'll win
His way out, ball or blade!

No matter if our shoes be worn,

No matter if our feet be torn-
Quick step! We'll with him before morn,
In Stonewall Jackson's way!"

The sun's bright lances rout the mists
Of morning and, by George!
There's Longstreet struggling in the lists,
Hemmed by an ugly gorge;

"Pope and his Yankees, whipped before!
Bayonets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar;
"Charge, Ashby! Pay off Stuart's score,
In Stonewall Jackson's way!"

Ah, woman! wait and watch, and yearn
For news of Stonewall's band
Ah, widow, read with eyes that burn
That ring upon thy hand!

Ah, maiden weep on, hope on, pray on,
Thy lot is not so all forlorn-
The foe had better ne'er been born
That gets in Stonewall's way.

JOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

NOT

As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning-
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast,

Not in a sheet or shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, [head,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun Of the enemy sullenly firing.