HEN troubled in spirit, when weary of life,

When I faint 'neath its burdens, and shrink from its strife,
When its fruit, turned to ashes, are mocking my taste,
And its fairest scene seems but a desolate waste,
Then come ye not near me, my sad heart to cheer
With friendship's soft accents or sympathy's tear;
No pity I ask, and no counsel I need,

But bring me, oh, bring me, my gallant young steed!
With his high arched neck, and his nostril spread wide,

His eye full of fire, and his step full of pride!
As I spring to his back, as I seize the strong rein,
The strength to my spirit returneth again;
The bonds are all broken that fettered my mind,
And my cares borne away on the wings of the wind;
My pride lifts its head, for a season bowed down,
And the queen in my nature now puts on her crown!

Now we're off-like the winds to the plains whence they came,
And the rapture of motion is thrilling my frame !
On, on speeds my courser, scarce printing the sod,
Scarce crushing a daisy to mark where he trod !
On, on like a deer, when the hound's early bay
Awakes the wild echoes, away and away!
Still faster, still farther, he leaps at my cheer,
Till the rush of the startled air whirs in my ear!

Now 'long a clear rivulet lieth his track,

See his glancing hoofs tossing the white pebbles back;
Now a glen dark as midnight-what matter?-we'll down,
Though shadows are round us, and rocks o'er us frown;
The thick branches shake as we're hurrying through,
And deck us with spangles of silvery dew.
What a wild thought of triumph that this girlish hand
Such a steed in the might of his strength may command!
What a glorious creature! Ah! glance at him now,
As 1 cneck him awhile on this green hillock's brow;
How he tosses his mane, with a shrill, joyous neigh,
And paws the firm earth in his proud, stately play!
Hurrah! off again, dashing on as in ire,

Till a long, flinty pathway is flashing with fire!

Ho! a ditch! Shall we pause? No; the bold leap we dare,

Like a swift-winged arrow we rush through the air!

Oh, not all the pleasures that poets may praise,

Not the 'wildering waltz in the ball-room's blaze,
Nor the chivalrous joust, nor the daring race,
Nor the swift regatta, nor merry chase,
Nor the sail, high heaving waters o'er,

Nor the rural dance on the moonlight shore,
Can the wild and thrilling joy exceed
Of a fearless leap on a fiery steed!

A

NGEL faces watch my pillow, angel voices haunt my sleep,
And upon the winds of midnight shining pinions round me sweep,
Floating downward on the starlight two bright infant forms I see-
They are mine, my own bright darlings, come from heaven to visit me.

Earthly children smile upon me, but these little ones above
Were the first to stir the fountains of a mother's deathless love,
And as now they watch my slumber, while their soft eyes on me shine,
God forgive a mortal yearning still to call His angels mine.

Earthly children fondly call me, but no mortal voice can seem
Sweet as those that whisper "Mother!" 'mid the glories of my dream;
Years will pass, and earthly prattlers cease perchance to lisp my name,
But my angel babies' accents will be evermore the same.

And the bright band now around me from their home perchance will rove,
In their strength no more depending on my constant care and love;
But my first-born still shall wander from the sky, in dreams to rest
Their soft cheeks and shining tresses on an earthly mother's breast.
Time may steal away the freshness, or some whelming grief destroy
All the hope that erst had blossomed, in my summer-time of joy;
Earthly children may forsake me, earthly friends perhaps betray,
Every tie that now unites me to this life may pass away:

But, unchanged, those angel watchers, from their blessed, immortal home,
Pure and fair, to cheer the sadness of my darkened dreams shall come,
And I cannot feel forsaken, for, though reft of earthly love,
Angel children call me "Mother!" and my soul will look above.

AR up the lonely mountain side my wandering footsteps led;
The moss lay thick beneath my feet, the pine sighed overhead.
The trace of a dismantled fort lay in the forest nave,
And in the shadow near my path I saw a soldier's grave.

The bramble wrestled with the weed upon the lowly mound,
The simple headboard, rudely writ, had rotted to the ground;
I raised it with a reverent hand, from dust its words to clear,
But time had blotted all but these—“ A Georgia Volunteer."

I saw the toad and scaly snake from tangled covert start,
And hide themselves among the weeds above the dead man's heart;
But undisturbed, in sleep profound, unheeding there he lay ;
His coffin but the mountain soil, his shroud Confederate gray.

I heard the Shenandoah roll along the vale below,

I saw the Alleghenies rise towards the realms of snow.

The "Valley Campaign" rose to mind-its leader's name-and then I knew the sleeper had been one of Stonewall Jackson's men.

Yet whence he came, what lip shall say-whose tongue will ever tell-
What desolate hearths and hearts have been because he fell?
What sad-eyed maiden braids her hair, her hair which he held dear?
One lock of which, perchance, lies with the Georgia Volunteer!

What mother, with long watching eyes and white lips cold and dumb,
Waits with appalling patience for her darling boy to come?
Her boy! whose mountain grave swells up but one of many a scar
Cut on the face of our fair land by gory-handed war.

What fights he fought, what wounds he wore, are all unknown to fame;
Remember, on his lonely grave there is not e'en a name!

That he fought well and bravely, too, and held his country dear,
We know, else he had never been a Georgia Volunteer.

He sleeps-what need to question now if he were wrong or right?
He knows, ere this, whose cause was just in God the Father's sight.
He wields no warlike weapons now, returns no foeman's thrust-
Who but a coward would revile an honored soldier's dust?

ALL quiet along the Potomac," they say,
Except now and then a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
By a rifleman off in the thicket.

'Tis nothing-a private or two, now and then,
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost-only one of the men,
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle."

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 watchfires 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,
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack-his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep-
For their mother-may Heaven. defend her!
The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
That night, when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips-when low-murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.
Then, drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree-
The footstep is lagging and weary;

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?

It looked like a rifle-" Ah! Mary, good-by !"
And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

No sound save the rush of the river:
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead-
The picket's off duty forever.

OME, dear old comrade, you and I
Will steal an hour from days gone by-
The shining days when life was new,
And all was bright as morning dew,
The lusty days of long ago,
When you were Bill and I was Joe.
Your name may flaunt a titled trail,
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail;
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare;
To-day, old friend, remember still
That I am Joe and you are Bill.

You've won the great world's envied prize,
And grand you look in people's eyes,
With HON. and LL.D.,

In big brave letters, fair to see-
Your fist, old fellow! off they go !-
How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?

Bill and Joe.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

You've worn the judge's ermine robe;
You've taught your name to half the globe;
You've sung mankind a deathless strain;
You've made the dead past live again;
The world may call you what it will,
But you and I are Joe and Bill.

The chaffing young folks stare and say,
"See those old buffers, bent and gray;
They talk like fellows in their teens!
Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means"-
And shake their heads; they little know
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe-
How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling at his side;
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes-
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.

Ah, pensive scholar! what is fame?
A fitful tongue of leaping flame;
A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust,
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust:
A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe?

The weary idol takes his stand,
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go-
How vain it seems, this empty show!-
Till all at once his pulses thrill:
'Tis poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill !"
And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears-
In some sweet lull of harp and song,
For earth-born spirits none too long-
Just whispering of the world below,

Where this was Bill, and that was Joe!

༢

MONG the beautiful pictures

That hang on Memory's wall,
Is one of a dim old forest,

That seemeth best of all.

Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;

Not for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale below;

Not for the milk-white lilies

That lean from the fragrant hedge,

Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,

And stealing their golden edge;

Not for the vines on the upland

Where the bright red berries rest,

Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip

It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother

With eyes that were dark and deep

In the lap of that dim old forest,
He lieth in peace asleep.

ALICE CARY.

Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there, the beautiful summers
The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And one of the autumn eves,

I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace As the light of immortal beauty Silently covered his face; And when the arrows of sunset

Lodged in the tree-tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beauty, Asleep by the gates of light. Therefore, of all the pictures

That hang on Memory's wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all.