Part II (continued 2)

It was the ninth of April—historic month and day! The day of Lee’s surrender—a score of years away. The sick-room veiled in midnight; no sound disturbed the air, Except the sufferer’s breathing, reclining in his chair. The savior of his country lay face to face with Death, Whose lean and hungry fingers confined his choking breath: A panoramic vision illumed his dreamy sight,— The vision of a lifetime, from dawn to waning light. A child of sunny summers, beside his mother’s knee, A youth of earnest purpose, his half-shut eyelids see; A grave and silent soldier, the pride of the parade, He rides, as if a Cossack, ’gainst Montezuma’s blade; A sturdy, sunburnt farmer, within his rustic home, Beside his blazing hearthstone, who never cares to roam Except where boon companions, with pipes and foaming beer, Tell tales of wild adventure, sing songs of hearty cheer. But hark! the bugle calleth! Its clarions wake the farms,— “Your country is in danger! To arms, my sons, to arms!” The streets are black with soldiers; their bristling bayonets gleam, A hundred thousand marching, as flows a mountain stream. The dreamer in his vision descries a battle-field; He hears the cannon echo, he sees battalions yield; He sees the blue-coats rally, he sees the gray-coats fall, The ghastly dead and dying, the “stars and bars” their pall Along the queen of rivers, against her trembling shore, Volcanic flames are belching, and volleying thunders roar: Hot shot and shell are crashing, while lurid smoke and flame Are from a fortress leaping,—a fortress known to fame. Again the picture changes! The Capitol is seen, Where rolls the broad Potomac through the banks of ever green: Not now fraternal kindness disports in festive garb, But brother, armed ’gainst brother, spurs on his fiery barb. Brigades and solid squadrons are marching out of camp; He hears their stirring music, he hears their steady tramp: The Wilderness the arena, a nation’s life the prize, Their watchword, “On to Richmond!” He hears their battle-cries. For days, for weeks together, repulsed, defeated, slain, As sands restrain old ocean, their ranks roll back again, Till rising higher, higher, with loud, exultant roar, The foaming, raging billows sweep o’er the crumbling shore. Now he sees a planter’s dwelling in Appomattox vale: The earth is piled in breastworks, ’tis rent with iron hail; What villages of canvas for men in blue or gray, What lines of halting columns, in grave or grim array! Within appear two chieftains, of heroes full a score, The victors and the vanquished: thank God, the war is o’er! “The olive-branch shall shield you, the sun of peace shall shine! This flag,” so says the leader, “this ægis still is thine!” No lion mien and bearing, no eagle’s eye of pride; As modest as a schoolboy, the conqueror seeks to hide—, Hide his speechless joy of triumph by generous act and word,— He feeds the conquered army! The beggar seems the lord. The reveille has sounded; ’twill never sound again! For days, in martial splendor, three hundred thousand men. From Vicksburg and from Shiloh, Antietam and the sea. From Shenandoah’s Valley and Gettysburg’s green lea.— Those cannoneers of Ruin, that hurricane of horse, With Pestilence behind them, and Carnage in their course; Those, those—when Pickett’s cohorts were charging wave on wave,— That stood like granite ledges, the bravest of the brave; With drums, with banners flying, with triumph in each eye, The grand review are marching. He sees them passing by As saw in dream. Napoleon, from that triumphal arch, That night in phantom phalanx his splendid heroes march. ’Twas like a shield all gory, that sun of Austerlitz! No bloody, ghostly phantom before our hero flits! Ye idols of the people, who lead an army well, Shall wield a nation’s sceptre, in capitols shall dwell! Past ages grim and hoary their victors loved to crown: The flaming sword of conquest still wins sublime renown. All echo and re-echo the glories of the brave; All, all, a grateful country! bedew the soldier’s grave. C. G. Fall.

Their deposits were left over night in the bank,— In a bank without whisper of fault: The amounts to their credit were placed on the books, And were left over night in the vault. To their credit, I say it, the bank was locked tight, Guarding thus against fire and theft; A patrol on the walk, and a new ’lectric light, Throwing beams to the right and the left.

Just here the cashier he left over night, Taking all but the house and the soil; And the long and the short of the story is this,— He was too long of stocks—short of oil. A receiver was called, and he looked o’er the wreck, And received those who called—thus bereft. “Have you nothing left over?” they timidly ask: He answers, “Yes, over the left.” W. C. Dornin.

Blaze, with your serried columns! I will not bend the knee! The shackles ne’er again shall bind The arm which now is free. I’ve mailed it with the thunder, When the tempest muttered low; And where it falls, ye well may dread The lightning of its blow! I’ve scared ye in the city, I’ve scalped ye on the plain; Go, count your chosen, where they fell Beneath my leaden rain! I scorn your proffered treaty! The pale-face I defy! Revenge is stamped upon my spear, And blood my battle-cry! Some strike for hope of booty, Some to defend their all— I battle for the joy I have To see the white man fall: I love, among the wounded, To hear his dying moan, And catch, while chanting at his side, The music of his groan. Ye’ve trailed me through the forest, Ye’ve tracked me o’er the stream; And struggling through the everglade, Your bristling bayonets gleam: But I stand as should the warrior, With his rifle and his spear; The scalp of vengeance still is red, And warns ye, “Come not here!” I loathe ye in my bosom, I scorn ye with mine eye; And I’ll taunt ye with my latest breath, And fight ye till I die! I ne’er will ask ye quarter, And I ne’er will be your slave; But I’ll swim the sea of slaughter, Till I sink beneath its wave.

Vake up, my schveet! Vake up, my lofe! Der moon dot can’t been seen abofe. Vake oud your eyes, und dough it’s late, I’ll make you oud a serenate. Der shtreet dot’s kinder dampy vet, Und dhere vas no goot blace to set; My fiddle’s getting oud of dune, So blease get vakey wery soon. O my lofe! my lofely lofe! Am you avake ub dhere abofe, Feeling sad und nice to hear Schneider’s fiddle schrabin near? Vell, anyvay, obe loose your ear, Und try to saw if you kin hear From dem bedclose vat you’m among, Der little song I’m going to sung:

O lady, vake! Get vake! Und hear der tale I’ll tell; Oh, you vot’s schleebin’ sound ub dhere, I like you pooty vell! Your plack eyes dhem don’t shine Ven you’m ashleep—so vake! (Yes, hurry up, und voke up quick, For gootness cracious sake!) My schveet imbatience, lofe, I hobe you vill oxcuse: I’m singing schveetly (dhere, py Jinks! Dhere goes a shtring proke loose!) O putiful, schveet maid! Oh, vill she efer voke? Der moon is mooning—(Jimminy! dhere Anoder shtring vent proke!) Oh, say, old schleeby head! (Now I vas getting mad— I’ll holler now, und I don’t care Uf I vake up her dad!) I say, you schleeby, vake! Vake oud! Vake loose! Vake ub! Fire! Murder! Police! Vatch! Oh, cracious! do vake ub!

Dot girl she schleebed—dot rain it rained, Und I looked shtoopid like a fool, Vhen mit my fiddle I shneaked off So vet und shlobby like a mool!

(Parthenia clasps her hands before her face, and stands sobbing in the foreground.) Ingomar. (Who has been standing on a rock looking at the proceedings of his followers.) No violence! Ho! how he runs! and now He stops and cries again! Poor fearful fool! It must be strange to fear: now, by my troth, I should like to feel, for once, what ’tis to fear! But the girl—(Leaning forward.) Ha! do I see right? you weep. [To Parthenia. Is that the happy temper that you boast? Par. Oh, I shall never see him more! Ing. What! have we For a silly old man, got now a foolish And timid weeping girl? I have had enough Of tears. Par. Enough, indeed, since you but mock them! I will not—no, I’ll weep no more. [She quickly dries her eyes, and retires to the background.[1] Ing. That’s good! come, that looks well; She is a brave girl! she rules herself, and if She keep her word, we have made a good exchange— “I’ll weep no more!” Aha! I like the girl. And if—Ho! whither goest thou? [To Parthenia, who is going off with two goblets. Par. Where should I go? to yonder brook, to cleanse the cups. Ing. No! stay and talk with me. Par. I have duties to perform. [Going. Ing. Stay—I command you, slave! Par. I am no slave! your hostage, but no slave. I go to cleanse the cups. [Exit l. Ing. Ho! here’s a self-willed thing—here is a spirit! [Mimicking her. “I will not, I am no slave! I have duties to perform! Take me for hostage!” and she flung back her head As though she brought with her a ton of gold! “I’ll weep no more,”—Aha! an impudent thing. She pleases me! I love to be opposed; I love my horse when he rears, my dogs when they snarl, The mountain torrent, and the sea, when it flings Its foam up to the stars; such things as these Fill me with life and joy. Tame indolence Is living death! the battle of the strong Alone is life! [During this speech Parthenia has returned with the cups and a bundle of field flowers. She seats herself on a piece of rock in front. Ing. Ah! she is here again. (He approaches her, and leans over her on the rock.) What art thou making there? Par. I? garlands. Ing. Garlands? (Musing.) It seems to me as I before had seen her In a dream! How! Ah, my brother!—he who died A child—yes, that is it. My little Folko—She has his dark-brown hair, his sparkling eye: Even the voice seems known again to me; I’ll not to sleep—I’ll talk to her. [Returns to her. These you call garlands, And wherefore do you weave them? Par. For these cups. Ing. How? Par. Is it not with you a custom? With us At home, we love to intertwine with flowers Our cups and goblets. Ing. What use is such a plaything? Par. Use? They are beautiful; that is their use. The sight of them makes glad the eye; their scent Refreshes, cheers. There! (Fastens the half-finished garland round a cup and presents it to him.) Is not that, now, beautiful? Ing. Ay—by the bright sun! That dark-green mixed Up with the gay flowers! Thou must teach our women To weave such garlands. Par. That is soon done: thy wife Herself shall soon weave wreaths as well as I. Ing. (Laughing heartily.) My wife! my wife! a woman Dost thou say? I thank the gods, not I. This is my wife— [Pointing to his accoutrements. My spear, my shield, my sword; let him who will Waste cattle, slaves, or gold, to buy a woman; Not I—not I! Par. To buy a woman?—how? Ing. What is the matter? why dost look so strangely? Par. How! did I hear aright? bargain for brides As you would slaves—buy them like cattle? Ing. Well, I think a woman fit only for a slave. We follow our own customs, as you yours. How do you in your city there? Par. Consult our hearts. Massilia’s freeborn daughters are not sold, But bound by choice with bands as light and sweet As these I hold. Love only buys us there. Ing. Marry for love—what! do you love your husbands? Par. Why marry else? Ing. Marry for love; that’s strange! I cannot comprehend. I love my horse, My dogs, my brave companions—but no woman! What dost thou mean by love—what is it, girl? Par. What is it? ’Tis of all things the most sweet— The heaven of life—or, so my mother says, I never felt it. Ing. Never? Par. No, indeed. [Looking at garland. Now look how beautiful! Here would I weave Red flowers if I had them. Ing. Yonder there, In that thick wood they grow. Par. How sayest thou? (Looking off.) Oh, what a lovely red! Go, pluck me some. Ing. (Starting at the suggestion.) I go for thee? the master serve the slave! [Gazing on her with increasing interest. And yet, why not? I’ll go—the poor child’s tired. Par. Dost thou hesitate? Ing. No, thou shalt have the flowers As fresh and dewy as the bush affords. [He goes off, r. Par. (Holding out the wreath.) I never yet succeeded half so well. It will be charming! Charming? and for whom? Here among savages! no mother here Looks smiling on it—I am alone, forsaken! But no, I’ll weep no more! No, none shall say I fear. Re-enter Ingomar, with a bunch of flowers, and slowly advancing towards Parthenia. Ing. (Aside.) The little Folko, when in his play he wanted Flowers or fruit, would so cry “Bring them to me; Quick! I will have them—these I will have or none;” Till somehow he compelled me to obey him, And she, with the same spirit, the same fire—Yes, there is much of the bright child in her. Well, she shall be a little brother to me! There are the flowers. [He hands her the flowers. Par. Thanks, thanks! Oh, thou hast broken them Too short off in the stem! [She throws some of them on the ground. Ing. Shall I go and get thee more? Par. No: these will do. Ing. Tell me now about your home—I will sit here, Near thee. Par. Not there: thou art crushing all the flowers. Ing. (Seating himself at her feet.) Well, well; I will sit here, then. And now tell me, What is your name? Par. Parthenia. Ing. Parthenia! A pretty name! and now, Parthenia, tell me How that which you call love grows in the soul; And what love is: ’tis strange, but in that word There’s something seems like yonder ocean—fathomless. Par. How shall I say? Love comes, my mother says, Like flowers in the night—reach me those violets—It is a flame a single look will kindle, But not an ocean quench. Fostered by dreams, excited by each thought, Love is a star from heaven, that points the way And leads us to its home—a little spot In earth’s dry desert, where the soul may rest— A grain of gold in the dull sand of life— A foretaste of Elysium; but when Weary of this world’s woes, the immortal gods Flew to the skies, with all their richest gifts, Love staid behind, self-exiled for man’s sake! Ing. I never yet heard aught so beautiful! But still I comprehend it not. Par. Nor I. For I have never felt it; yet I know A song my mother sang, an ancient song, That plainly speaks of love, at least to me. How goes it? Stay— [Slowly, as trying to recollect. “What love is, if thou wouldst be taught, Thy heart must teach alone,— Two souls with but a single thought, Two hearts that beat as one. And whence comes love? like morning’s light, It comes without thy call; And how dies love?—A spirit bright, Love never dies at all!” And when—and when— [Hesitating as if unable to continue. Ing. Go on. Par. I know no more. Ing. (Impatiently.) Try—try! Par. I cannot now; but at some other time I may remember. Ing. (Somewhat authoritatively.) Now, go on, I say. Par. (Springing up in alarm.) Not now, I want more roses for my wreath! Yonder they grow, I will fetch them for myself. Take care of all my flowers and the wreath! [Throws the flowers into Ingomar’s lap and runs off. Ing. (After a pause, without changing his position, speaking to himself in deep abstraction.) “Two souls with but a single thought, Two hearts that beat as one.” Maria Lovell’s translation from the German.

I. “Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! ding-dong!” The bellman’s voice is loud and strong; So is his bell: “Oh, yes! ding-dong!” He wears a coat with golden lace; See how the people of the place Come running to hear what the bellman says! “Oh, yes! Sir Nicholas Hildebrand Has just returned from the Holy Land, And freely offers his heart and hand— Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! ding-dong!” All the women hurry along, Maids and widows, a clattering throng. “Oh, sir, you are hard to understand! To whom does he offer his heart and hand? Explain your meaning, we do command!” “Oh, yes! ding-dong! you shall understand! Oh, yes! Sir Nicholas Hildebrand Invites the ladies of this land To feast with him, in his castle strong, This very day at three. Ding-dong! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! ding-dong!” Then all the women went off to dress, Mary, Margaret, Bridget, Bess, Patty, and more than I can guess. They powdered their hair with golden dust, And bought new ribbons—they said they must— But none of them painted, we will trust. Long before the time arrives, All the women that could be wives Are dressed within an inch of their lives. Meanwhile Sir Nicholas Hildebrand Had brought with him from the Holy Land A couple of bears—Oh, that was grand! He tamed the bears, and they loved him true: Whatever he told them they would do— Hark! ’tis the town-clock striking two! II. Among the maidens of low degree The poorest of all was Cicely— A shabbier girl could hardly be. “Oh, I should like to see the feast, But my frock is old, my shoes are pieced, My hair is rough!”—(It never was greased.) The clock struck three! She durst not go! But she heard the band, and, to see the show, Crept after the people that went in a row. When Cicely came to the castle gate, The porter exclaimed, “Miss Shaggypate, The hall is full, and you come too late!” Just then the music made a din, Flute, and cymbal, and culverin, And Cicely, with a squeeze, got in. Oh, what a sight! Full fifty score Of dames that Cicely knew, and more, Filling the hall from dais to door! The dresses were like a garden bed, Green and gold, and blue and red— Poor Cicely thought of her tossy head! She heard the singing—she heard the clatter— Clang of flagon and clink of platter— But, oh, the feast was no such matter! For she saw Sir Nicholas himself, Raised on a dais just like a shelf, And fell in love with him—shabby elf! Her heart beat quick; aside she stepped: Under the tapestry she crept, Tousling her tossy hair, and wept! Her cheeks were wet, her eyes were red. “Who makes that noise?” the ladies said; “Turn out that girl with the shaggy head!” III. Just then there was heard a double roar, That shook the place, both wall and floor: Everybody looked to the door. It was a roar, it was a growl; The ladies set up a little howl, And flapped and clucked like frightened fowl. Sir Hildebrand for silence begs— In walked the bears on their hinder legs, Wise as owls, and merry as grigs! The dark girls tore their hair of sable; The fair girls hid underneath the table; Some fainted; to move they were not able. But most of them could scream and screech— Sir Nicholas Hildebrand made a speech— “Order, ladies, I do beseech!” The bears looked hard at Cicely, Because her hair hung wild and free— “Related to us, miss, you must be!” Then Cicely, filling two plates of gold As full of cherries as they could hold, Walked up to the bears, and spoke out bold: “Welcome to you! and to you Mr. Bear! Will you take a chair? will you take a chair? This is an honor, we do declare!” Sir Hildebrand strode up to see, Saying, “Who may this maiden be? Ladies, this is the wife for me!” Almost before they could understand, He took up Cicely by the hand, And danced with her a saraband. Her hair was rough as a parlor broom; It swung, it swirled all round the room— Those ladies were vexed, we may presume. Sir Nicholas kissed her on the face, And set her beside him on the dais, And made her the lady of the place. The nuptials soon they did prepare, With a silver comb for Cicely’s hair: There were bands of music everywhere. And in that beautiful bridal show Both the bears were seen to go Upon their hind legs to and fro! Now every year on the wedding-day The boys and girls come out to play, And scramble for cherries as they may. With a cheer for this and the other bear, And a cheer for Sir Nicholas, free and fair, And a cheer for Cis, of the tossy hair— With one cheer more (if you will wait) For every girl with a curly pate, Who keeps her hair in a proper state. Sing bear’s grease! curling-irons to sell! Sing combs and brushes! sing tortoise-shell! Oh, yes! ding-dong! the crier, the bell! Isn’t this a pretty tale to tell? Lilliput Levee.

It was in the days when Claverhouse Was scouring moor and glen, To change, with fire and bloody sword, The faith of Scottish men. They had made a covenant with the Lord Firm in their faith to bide, Nor break to him their plighted word, Whatever might betide. The sun was well-nigh setting, When o’er the heather wild, And up the narrow mountain path, Alone there walked a child. He was a bonny, blithesome lad, Sturdy and strong of limb: A father’s pride, a mother’s love, Were fast bound up in him. His bright blue eyes glanced fearless round, His step was firm and light: What was it underneath his plaid His little hands grasped tight? It was bannocks which, that very morn, His mother made with care, From out her scanty store of meal, And now, with many a prayer, Had sent by Jamie, her ane boy, A trusty lad and brave, To good old Pastor Tammus Roy, Now hid in yonder cave, And for whom the bloody Claverhouse Had hunted long in vain, And swore they would not leave that glen Till old Tam Roy was slain. So Jamie Douglas went his way With heart that knew no fear: He turned the great curve in the rock, Nor dreamed that death was near. And there were bloody Claverhouse men Who laughed aloud with glee, When, trembling now within their power, The frightened child they see. He turns to flee, but all in vain: They drag him back apace To where their cruel leader stands, And set them face to face. The cakes concealed beneath his plaid Soon tell the story plain— “It is old Tam Roy the cakes are for!” Exclaimed the angry man. “Now guide me to his hiding-place, And I will let you go.” But Jamie shook his yellow curls, And stoutly answered, “No!” “I’ll drop you down the mountain side, And there upon the stones The old gaunt wolf and carrion crow Shall battle for your bones.” And in his brawny, strong right hand He lifted up the child, And held him where the clefted rocks Formed a chasm deep and wild. So deep it was, the trees below Like stunted bushes seemed. Poor Jamie looked in frightened maze: It seemed some horrid dream. He looked at the blue sky above, Then at the men near by: Had they no little boys at home, That they could let him die? But no one spoke, and no one stirred, Or lifted hand to save From such a fearful, frightful death, The little lad so brave. “It is woful deep!” he shuddering cried; “But, oh! I canna tell! So drop me down, then, if you will— It is nae so deep as hell!” A childish scream, a faint, dull sound— O Jamie Douglas true! Long, long within that lonely cave Shall Tam Roy wait for you. Long for your welcome coming Waits the mother on the moor, And watches and calls, “Come, Jamie, lad,” Through the half-open door. No more adown the rocky path You come with fearless tread, Or, on moor or mountain, take The good man’s daily bread. But up in heaven the shining ones A wond’rous story tell, Of a child snatched up from a rocky gulf That is nae so deep as hell. And there before the great white throne, Forever blessed and glad, His mother dear and old Tam Roy Shall meet their bonny lad.

Sat we ’neath the dark veranda, Years and years ago; And I softly pressed a hand a Deal more white than snow; And I cast aside my reina, As I gazed upon her face, And I read her “Magdalena,” While she smoothed her Spanish lace— Read her Waller’s “Magdalena”— She had Magdalena’s grace, Read her of the Spanish duel, Of the brother, courtly, cruel, Who between the British wooer And the Seville lady came: How her lover promptly slew her Brother, and then fled in shame— How he dreamed, in long years after, Of the river’s rippling laughter— Of the love he used to know, In the myrtle-curtained villa, Near the city of Sevilla, Years and years ago. Ah, how warmly was I reading, As I gazed upon her face! And my voice took tones of pleading, For I sought to win her grace. Surely, thought I, in her veins Runs some drop of foreign strains— There is something half Castilian In that lip that shames vermilion; In that mass of raven tresses, Tossing like a falcon’s jesses; In that eye with trailing lashes— And its witching upward flashes— Such, indeed, I know, Shone where Guadalquivir plashes Years and years ago. Looking in her face I read it— How the metre trips!— And the god of lovers On my happy lips— All those words of mystic sweetness Spoke I with an airy neatness, As I never had before— As I cannot speak them more— Reja, plaza and mantilla. “No palabras” and Sevilla, Caballero and sombrero, And duenna and Duero, Spada, senor, sabe Dios— Smooth as pipe of Melibœus— Ah, how very well I read it, Looking in her lovely eyes! When ’twas o’er, I looked for credit, As she softly moved to rise.

Doting dream, ah, dream fallacious— Years and years ago! For she only said, “My gracious— What a lot of French you know!” Puck.

“We’ll mow,” quoth old farmer Jacobs, “the new corner medder to-day— Nell, you come an’ help with the rakin’—its right ketchin’ weather for hay; Neighbor Smith’s Jim, he’s bin to the city, an’ a new-fangled patent he’s bought; An’ he’s bound to come over this mornin’, an’ streak through that air medder-lot. He sez—an’ I tell him the kaounty ain’t able to beat him for cheek— The thing’ll do more execution than me an’ my boys in a week; But he offered so kinder perlite-like (I’ve no faith in the gimcrack—not I), I couldn’t do other than ’low him to fetch the queer critter an’ try.” Pretty Nell, skimming cream in the dairy, peeped out through the vine-shaded pane, As Jim, with “Old Roan” and “Black Billy” went clattering down through the lane; And was it the “new-fangled mower” her shy blue eyes followed? I ween From the blushes that deepened and flitted, it could not have been the machine. Prone under the lengthening shadows the feathery meadow-grass lay; The daises uncrowned in their glory, sun-smitten, slow fading away; The cardinal flower in the ditches, rose proudly, right royally dressed, And restlessly hither and hither moaned the bobolinks spoiled of their nest. Fair Nellie outrivalled the daises; and so, it was plain, thought young Jim, Or else that such dainty hay-making required much assistance from him; And if ever the lost joy of Eden came back to this earth long forgot, It came to these blissful young lovers, a raking the new meadow-lot. “What’s this that you ax for—my Nellie?—Wal, if I ain’t beat—can it be It wasn’t my hay but my darter made you mighty obleegin’ to me? You don’t desarve her, you rascal, but”—the shrewd gray eyes twinkled—“I guess— Considerin’ the help you’ll be hayin’—I s’pose—shall hev to say—yes.” Ruth Revere.

Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! As I lay with my blanket on, By the dim firelight, in the moonlit night, When the skirmishing fight was done. The measured beat of the sentry’s feet, With the jingling scabbard’s ring! Tramp! tramp! in my meadow-camp By the Shenandoah’s spring! The moonlight seems to shed cold beams On a row of pale grave-stones: Give the bugle breath, and that image of Death Will fly from the reveille’s tones. By each tented roof, a charger’s hoof Makes the frosty hillside ring: Give the bugle breath, and a spirit of Death To each horse’s girth will spring. Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! The sentry before my tent, Guards in gloom his chief, for whom Its shelter to-night is lent. I am not there. On the hillside bare I think of the ghost within; Of the brave who died at my sword-hand side, To-day, ’mid the horrible din Of shot and shell, and the infantry yell, As we charged with the sabre drawn. To my heart I said, “Who shall be the dead In my tent at another dawn?” I thought of a blossoming almond-tree, The stateliest tree that I know; Of a golden bowl; of a parted soul; And a lamp that is burning low. Oh, thoughts that kill! I thought of the hill In the far-off Jura chain; Of the two, the three, o’er the wide salt sea, Whose hearts would break with pain; Of my pride and joy—my eldest boy; Of my darling, the second—in years; Of Willie, whose face with its pure, mild grace, Melts memory into tears; Of their mother, my bride, by the Alpine lake’s side, And the angels asleep in her arms; Love, Beauty, and Truth, which she brought to my youth, In that sweet April day of her charms. “Halt! Who comes there?” The cold midnight air, And the challenging word, chills me through: The ghost of a fear whispers, close to my ear, “Is peril, love, coming to you?” The hoarse answer, “Relief,” makes the shade of a grief Die away, with the step on the sod. A kiss melts in air, while a tear and a prayer Confide my beloved to God. Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! With a solemn pendulum-swing! Though I slumber all night, the fire burns bright, And my sentinels’ scabbards ring.

“Boot and saddle!” is sounding. Our pulses are bounding. “To horse!” and I touch with my heel Black Gray in the flanks, and ride down the ranks, With my heart, like my sabre, of steel. Horace Binney Sargent.

Ye say they all have passed away— That noble race and brave; That their light canoes have vanished From off the crested wave; That, ’mid the forests where they roamed, There rings no hunter’s shout; But their name is on your waters— Ye may not wash it out. ’Tis where Ontario’s billow, Like ocean’s surge is curled; Where strong Niagara’s thunders wake The echo of the world; Where red Missouri bringeth Rich tribute from the west, And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps On green Virginia’s breast. Ye say their cone-like cabins, That clustered o’er the vale, Have fled away like withered leaves Before the Autumn’s gale; But their memory liveth on your hills. Their baptism on your shore: Your everlasting rivers speak Their dialect of yore. Old Massachusetts wears it Upon her lordly crown, And broad Ohio bears it Amid his young renown; Connecticut hath wreathed it Where her quiet foliage waves, And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse Through all her ancient caves. Wachusett hides its lingering voice Within his rocky heart, And Alleghany graves its tone Throughout his lofty chart; Monadnock on his forehead hoar Doth seal the sacred trust; Your mountains build their monument, Though ye destroy their dust. Ye call these red-browed brethren The insects of an hour: Crushed like the noteless worm amid The regions of their power, Ye drive them from their fathers’ lands, Ye break of faith the seal; But can ye from the Court of Heaven Exclude their last appeal? Ye see their unresisting tribes, With toilsome steps and slow, On through the trackless desert pass, A caravan of woe: Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf? His sleepless vision dim? Think ye the soul’s blood may not cry From that far land to him? L. H. Sigourney.

I saw him standing in the crowd— A comely youth and fair! There was a brightness in his eye, A glory in his hair! I saw his comrades gaze on him— His comrades standing by. I heard them whisper each to each, “He never told a lie!” I looked in wonder on that boy, As he stood there so young: To think that never an untruth Was uttered by his tongue. I thought of all the boys I’d known,— Myself among the fry,— And knew of none that one could say, “He never told a lie!” I gazed upon that youth with awe That did enchain me long: I had not seen a boy before So perfect and so strong. And with something of regret I wished that he was I, So they might look at me and say, “He never told a lie!” I thought of questions very hard For boys to answer right: “How did you tear those pantaloons?” “My son! what caused the fight?” “Who left the gate ajar last night?” “Who bit the pumpkin-pie?” What boy could answer all of these, And never tell a lie? I proudly took him by the hand— My words with praise were rife; I blessed that boy who never told A falsehood in his life; I told him I was proud of him— A fellow standing by, Informed me that that boy was dumb Who never told a lie!

She, with a milk-pail on her arm, Turns aside with her young cheeks glowing, And sees down the lane, the slow, dull tread Of the drove of cows that are homeward going. “Bessie,” he said: at the sound she turned, Her blue eyes full of childish wonder: “My mother is feeble and lame and old— I need a wife at my farmhouse yonder. “My heart is lonely, my home is drear: I need your presence ever near me. Will you be my guardian angel, dear, Queen of my household, to guide and cheer me?” “It has a pleasant sound,” she said,— “A household queen, a guiding spirit, To warm your heart, and cheer your home, And keep the sunshine ever near it: But I am only a simple child, So my mother says in her daily chiding; And what must a guardian angel do When she first begins her work of guiding?” “Well, first, dear Bessie, a smiling face Is dearer far than the rarest beauty; And my mother, fretful, lame, and old, Will require a daughter’s loving duty. You will see to her flannels, drops, and tea, And talk with her of lungs and liver: Give her your cheerful service, dear— The Lord he loveth a cheerful giver. “You will see that my breakfast is piping hot, And rub the clothes to a snowy whiteness; Make golden butter and snowy rolls, And polish things to a shining brightness; Will darn my stockings, and mend my coats, And see that the buttons are sewed on tightly: You will keep things cheerful and neat and sweet, That home’s altar-fires may still burn brightly. “You will read me at evening the daily news, The tedious winter nights beguiling, And never forget that the sweetest face Is a cheerful face that’s always smiling. In short, you’ll arrange in a general way For a sort of sublunary heaven; For home, dear Bessie, say what we may, Is the highest sphere to a woman given.” The lark sang out to the bending sky, The bobolink piped in the nodding rushes, And out of the tossing clover-blooms Came the sweet, clear song of the meadow-thrushes. And Bessie, listening, paused a while, Then said, with a sly glance at her neighbor, “But John—do you mean—that is to say, What shall I get for all this labor? “To be nurse, companion, and servant girl, To make home’s altar-fires burn brightly; To wash and iron and scrub and cook, And always be cheerful, neat, and sprightly; To give up liberty, home, and friends, Nay, even the name of a mother’s giving,— To do all this for one’s board and clothes, Why, the life of an angel isn’t worth living!” And Bessie gayly went her way Down through the fields of scented clover, But never again since that summer day Has she won a glance from her rustic lover. The lark sings out to the bending sky, The clouds sail on as white as ever; The clovers toss in the summer wind, But Bessie has lost that chance forever.

Shall we take a stroll together, You and I, And discuss the charming weather, This July, Or the picnics and the dances, And those sweet but short romances, Which, like other idle fancies, Pass and die? Yes, ’tis true that things have happened Since we met,— Since I saw you first with cap and Gay rosette, Standing like some well-drilled soldier, Only calmer and—well—bolder, With a racket on your shoulder, At the net; And your face lit up with laughter Through it all, Little feet went tripping after Every ball, While the look of bright reliance Which bespoke a pert defiance Of all manly wiles and science, I recall. ’Twas a glance that struck dire terror To my heart, And proved source of many an error In my art; Yet in truth I felt not humbled, Though my partner growled and grumbled, As I slid and slipped and stumbled Through my part. You still remember, though so trifling. What I said As we left the lawn, too stifling, For the shade; And as, moved by glance magnetic Of your eyes, I waxed prophetic, While you smiled back sympathetic, Calm and staid? Is it wise, then, to remember Golden hours,— Recall June in December Such as ours? All the hopes that have miscarried— What! too long, you say, you’ve tarried, And your husband—Then you’re married! Gracious powers! T. Malcolm Watson

In the loftiest room, of princely state, Of a modern palace grand and great, Whose marble front is a symbol true Of the inner splendors hid from view, On an autumn night, when wild without The bold winds held their revel rout, Rudely assailing the passing throng, Through churchyards creeping with mournful song, A group was gathered around a board Heaped with all that wealth could afford, Or taste could suggest: dishes costly and rare, Fruits of all climes and all seasons, were there. The pendent lights in brilliance danced On the gleaming plate their rays enhanced; The massive mirrors thrice displayed The stately banquet there arrayed. Furniture carved by an artist hand, Carpets which only great wealth could command, Curtains of damask, of lace, and of gold, Spoke of the splendors wealth could unfold, And filled with a joy and a pleasure rare The youthful hearts that were gathered there. Slender each form, and fair each face, Of the twelve gay lads which that table grace, As with genial talk and pleasant jest They banter each other, and cheer their guest. For one guest is there, as youthful as they, With a heart as light, and a voice as gay, Who laughs at their jests with ready glee, And whose quick returns speak a spirit free,— An honored guest; for, on the morrow, They must part with him in pain and sorrow. The glittering emblems his shoulders bear Bid him for strife and for peril prepare; Bid him go forth at his Country’s call, With her banner to triumph, or on it to fall. A moment’s pause, as with ready hand The waiter hurries, at command, To clear the table, and, instead Of the rich, choice viands thickly spread, Ranges dark bottles and cruses, which show Marks of long years in damp vaults below. The richest juices age can display Are quickly spread in tempting array. Wines of Bordeaux and Seville are there, With liquors and cordials sparkling and rare; And bottles are opened, and glasses are filled. When all in a moment the tumult is stilled, As he who presides with dignified grace High raises his goblet, and stands in his place:— “I give you, friends, no warrior’s name Your hearts to thrill, your blood to flame; No toast to beauty shall my lips repeat, Where we to-night in sacred friendship meet To part with one, who, in our boyhood’s days, Earnest and true, won all our love and praise; Who, on the morrow, plays the hero’s part, And seeks the battle with a loyal heart. His health I give with an earnest prayer, That, while on his mission of peril and care, Success may be his, and, by deeds renowned, He may meet us again with laurels crowned.” All glasses are raised, when a gentle hand Is heard at the door—all silent stand As it slowly opens, and into the light An old man steps, his features bright: The long white hairs o’er his shoulders stream, Like silver threads in the warm rays beam. Wrinkled his brow, and pale his face, Wasted his form, and tottering his pace, Shrunken his cheek; but the eye above Tells of gentleness, kindliness, love. And silent stand all as he slowly seeks A place near the table, and gently speaks:— “Young men, but a moment I check your mirth, And bring you back to the common earth. Unbidden I come with an old man’s prayer: May it seek your hearts, and gain entrance there! Look on my face, seamed, not with crime, But with marks of age before their time: These long white hairs should not have shown Till ten more years had by me flown. Age is upon me; not age by years, But age by sorrow and care and tears; Not age that cheers as it draweth near Yon heaven which seemeth more bright and clear, But age which causes the heart to lag In its onward course, and the spirit to flag; That prays for death as but a release From earthly care, and finds no peace In that sweet belief that at last I hail,— ‘There is rest for the weary beyond the vale.’ For to me has come a spirit of light, Bringing the morning, and chasing the night; Causing my heart with joy to swell To my Maker, ‘who doeth all things well.’ You shall hear my story: ’twill not be long, And may guard you all from sin and from wrong. I had wealth and plenty in goodly lands, In houses and cattle; and from my hands Many were fed; and many were they Who partook of my charity day by day. My house was open to stranger and friend; And my gold did I lavishly, freely spend. But one bitter curse did my wealth uprear To poison my life,—the tempter here, The sparkling demon, which now I see From all your glasses glaring on me,— A monster who steals on its prey so slow, That it has your life before you know Or dream of its power: this was the curse That sat at my fireside, robbed my purse, Poisoned my life, and left me to be A drifting log on the world’s wide sea, Ruined and bankrupt, lost and bereft; No kindred, no fortune, no treasure, left. Treasure!—yes; for I had three sons, The hope of my life,—three noble ones. You shall hear their fate, and then I’ll away, Nor longer your hour of pleasure delay. “One sought as a merchant hopeful to clear Our tarnished name, to again uprear Our shattered house; but, sad to say, The curse of the wine-cup was in his way. He seized on it madly, drank deep and fast, And sank to the drunkard’s grave at last. I stood by his side as with frenzy wild He cursed himself and his wife and child; He cursed me too, as the one who had led His feet in the path that drunkards tread; And then—it was worse than all beside— He cursed his Maker; and then—he died! “Another, with spirit that loved to brave, Sought a bold, free life on the ocean-wave. He left my side full of life and health, In a good stanch ship, in search of wealth. A twelvemonth passed, and day by day I scanned for his sail the distant bay. At last I saw it, and eagerly flew To welcome my boy so manly and true. But, alas! he was gone: no son to greet My waiting heart came with eager feet. But they told me there,—one stormy night, When the heavens were filled with angry light, The waves rolled high, and the winds beat wild, That out on a frail yard went my child; He had drunk deep, and ’twas fearful to sweep On that slender spar o’er the seething deep; That one heavy sea tossed the ship like a toy, And hurled from his hold my darling boy. Then I sank me down in agony wild, And glared on the waves that rolled over my child: I gazed until in the waters blue I saw reflected the brilliant hue Of one lone star, which, high above, Seemed to speak to my heart of faith and love; And I thought, as I turned my eyes to its light, It beckoned me on to the heavens so bright, Where I know, whenever this life shall cease, I shall meet my boy in eternal peace. “I had but one left; and him I taught To shun each sinful word and thought; To beware of the wine-cup’s demon lure, That would steel his heart, and his soul obscure. He took the way of life that leads To the sacred desk where the preacher pleads, And placed his foot on the pulpit stair, The gospel—banner of life—to bear. When the cannon’s boom o’er Sumter broke, And the air was filled with traitorous smoke; When brave men sprang with willing hearts To their Country’s flag to repel the darts Which treason had hurled with malice wild At the life of the mother, so good and mild,— My boy stepped down from the preacher’s stand, And started forth, with life in hand, To sell it dear, but to battle strong With the loyal North against fearful wrong. I know that he carries a magic spell ’Gainst the curse of our race to guard him well; And I know, should he fall, his death will be In the foremost ranks of loyalty. And now, young men, an old man’s prayer:— Leave the bright wine in your glasses there; Shun its allurements; for in its deep red Is the blood of its victims dying and dead. Fill up your glasses, and pledge your friend In the crystal stream that Heaven doth send.” With a lowly bow, and the same meek air, He has passed the door, and adown the stair; While those he has left to their leader turn With downcast eyes, and cheeks that burn. Silent he stands as his glass he takes, When the guest of the evening the silence breaks. “Friends of my boyhood, the old man’s prayer Shall meet a response in the heart I wear. I come to-night from a mother’s side: She watches my life with a parent’s pride; And I know ’tis the dearest wish of her heart, In camp and in battle to keep me apart From sin and temptation; unceasing will pray Heaven’s blessing to guard on my perilous way. And this pledge will I leave her,—never again The wine-cup’s deadly poison to drain. So, friends, let’s drink to our meeting again: My drink is the water, free from all stain.” He stood with his upraised glass, and the light Full on his fair young brow beamed bright,— That brow which an anxious mother would kiss With a pure, deep feeling of heartfelt bliss; And along the line of his comrades young, To honor his toast, each hand upsprung: In not one glass did the red wine gleam; But all were filled from the crystal stream. On the morrow, adown the street, With trumpet’s blast and war-drum’s beat, Firm and erect, with martial tread, The flag of their Country overhead, With brave, stout hearts, and patriot-song, The Nation’s heroes go marching along. And our soldier is there, marching forth To join the bands of the loyal North; To strike a blow for his Country dear, And her trailing flag to again uprear. Light is his heart; his faith is strong; Bright gleams his sword as he moves along: But the armor he wears that shall serve him best Is the pledge to his mother guarding his breast. George M. Baker.

The good dame looked from her cottage At the close of the pleasant day, And cheerily called to her little son Outside the door at play,— “Come, Peter, come! I want you to go, While there is light to see, To the hut of the blind old man who lives Across the dike, for me; And take these cakes I made for him— They are hot and smoking yet: You have time enough to go and come Before the sun is set.” Then the good-wife turned to her labor, Humming a simple song, And thought of her husband, working hard At the sluices all day long; And set the turf a-blazing, And brought the coarse black bread, That he might find a fire at night, And find the table spread. And Peter left the brother, With whom all day he had played, And the sister who had watched their sports In the willow’s tender shade, And told them they’d see him back before They saw a star in sight, Though he wouldn’t be afraid to go In the very darkest night! For he was a brave, bright fellow, With eye and conscience clear; He could do whatever a boy might do, And he had not learned to fear. Why, he wouldn’t have robbed a bird’s nest, Nor brought a stork to harm, Though never a law in Holland Had stood to stay his arm! And now, with his face all glowing, And eyes as bright as the day With the thoughts of his pleasant errand, He trudged along the way; And soon his joyous prattle Made glad a lonesome place— Alas! if only the blind old man Could have seen that happy face! Yet he somehow caught the brightness Which his voice and presence lent, And he felt the sunshine come and go As Peter came and went. And now, as the day was sinking, And the winds began to rise, The mother looked from her door again. Shading her anxious eyes, And saw the shadows deepen, And birds to their homes come back, But never a sign of Peter Along the level track. But she said, “He will come at morning, So I need not fret or grieve; Though it isn’t like my boy at all To stay without my leave.” But where was the child delaying? On the homeward way was he, And across the dike, while the sun was up An hour above the sea. He was stopping, now to gather flowers, Now listening to the sound, As the angry waters dashed themselves Against their narrow bound. “Ah! well for us,” said Peter; “That the gates are good and strong, And my father tends them carefully, Or they would not hold you long! You’re a wicked sea,” said Peter: “I know why you fret and chafe; You would like to spoil our lands and homes But our sluices keep you safe!” But hark! Through the noise of waters Comes a low, clear, trickling sound; And the child’s face pales with terror, And his blossoms drop to the ground. He is up the bank in a moment, And, stealing through the sand, He sees a stream not yet so large As his slender, childish hand. ’Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy, Unused to fearful scenes; But, young as he is, he has learned to know The dreadful thing that means. A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart Grows faint that cry to hear, And the bravest man in all the land Turns white with mortal fear. For he knows the smallest leak may grow To a flood in a single night, And he knows the strength of the cruel sea When loosed in its angry might. And the boy! He has seen the danger, And, shouting a wild alarm, He forces back the weight of the sea With the strength of his single arm. He listens for the joyful sound Of a footstep passing nigh, And lays his ear to the ground, to catch The answer to his cry. And he hears the rough winds blowing, And the waters rise and fall, But never an answer comes to him, Save the echo of his call. He sees no hope, no succor; His feeble voice is lost; Yet what shall he do but watch and wait, Though he perish at his post! So, faintly calling and crying Till the sun is under the sea, Crying and moaning till the stars Come out for company, He thinks of his brother and sister, Asleep in their safe warm bed; He thinks of his father and mother, Of himself as dying—and dead; And of how, when the night is over, They must come and find him at last: But he never thinks he can leave the place Where duty holds him fast. The good dame in the cottage Is up and astir with the light, For the thought of her little Peter Has been with her all night. And now she watches the pathway, As yestereve she had done; But what does she see so strange and black Against the rising sun? Her neighbors are bearing between them Something straight to her door: Her child is coming home, but not As he ever came before! “He is dead!” she cries; “my darling!” And the startled father hears, And comes and looks the way she looks, And fears the thing she fears: Till a glad shout from the bearers Thrills the stricken man and wife— “Give thanks, for your son has saved our land, And God has saved his life!” So, there in the morning sunshine They knelt about the boy; And every head was bared and bent In tearful, reverent joy. ’Tis many a year since then; but still, When the sea roars like a flood, Their boys are taught what a boy can do Who is brave and true and good. For every man in that country Takes his son by the hand, And tells him of little Peter, Whose courage saved the land. They have many a valiant hero Remembered through the years, But never one whose name so oft Is named with loving tears. And his deed shall be sung by the cradle, And told the child on the knee, So long as the dikes of Holland Divide the land from the sea! Phœbe Cary.

No sun—no moon— No morn—no noon— No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day— No sky—no earthly view— No distance looking blue— No road—no street—no “t’other side the way”— No end to any Row— No indications where the crescents go— No top to any steeple— No recognition of familiar people— No courtesies for showing ’em— No knowing ’em— No travelling at all—no locomotion— No inkling of the way—no notion— No go, by land or ocean! No mail—no post— No news from any foreign coast— No park—no ring—no afternoon gentility— No company—no nobility— No warmth—no cheerfulness, no healthful ease— No comfortable feel in any member— No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November! Hood.

Did you ever? No, I never! Mercy on us, what a smell! Don’t be frightened, Johnny dear! Gracious! how the jackalls yell. Mother, tell me what’s the man Doing with that pole of his? Bless your little precious heart, He’s stirring up the beastesses! Children, don’t you go so near! Heving’s! there’s the Afric cowses What’s the matter with the child? Why, the monkey’s, tore his trousers! Here’s the monstrous elephant— I’m all a-tremble at the sight; See his monstrous toothpick, boys! Wonder if he’s fastened tight? There’s the lion! see his tail! How he drags it on the floor! Sakes alive! I’m awful scared To hear the horrid creatures roar! Here’s the monkeys in their cage, Wide awake you are to see ’em; Funny, ain’t it? How would you Like to have a tail and be ’em? Johnny, darling, that’s the bear That tore the naughty boys to pieces! Horned cattle! only hear How the dreadful camel wheezes! That’s the tall giraffe, my boy, Who stoops to hear the morning lark; ’Twas him who waded Noah’s flood, And scorned the refuge of the ark. Here’s the crane—the awkward bird! Strong his neck is as a whaler’s; And his bill is full as long As ever met one from the tailor’s. Look! just see the zebra there, Standing safe behind the bars; Goodness me! how like a flag, All except the corner stars! There’s the bell! the birds and beasts Now are going to be fed; So, my little darlings, come, It’s time for you to be abed. “Mother, ’tisn’t nine o’clock! You said we needn’t go before; Let us stay a little while— Want to see the monkeys more!” Cries the showman, “Turn ’em out! Dim the lights! there, that will do; Come again to-morrow, boys; Bring your little sister, too.” Exit mother, half distraught, Exit father, muttering “Bore!” Exit children blubbering still, “Want to see the monkeys more!” J. Honeywell.

What would I do if you was dead? And when do you think of dying? I’d stand by your bed, and hold your head, And cry, or pretind to be crying! There’s many a worser man nor you— If one knew where to find him— And mebbe many a better, too, With money to leave behind him! But you, if I was dying to-day, (I saw you now when you kissed her!) I tell you, Pat, what you’d be at— You’d marry your widdy’s sister! You’d make an illigant corpse, indade, Sleeping so sound and stiddy; If you could see yourself as you laid, You’d want to come back to Biddy! You would be dressed in your Sunday best, As tidy as I could make you, With a sprig of something on your breast, And the boys would come to wake you. But you, if I was dead in your stead, (Do you think I never missed her?) I tell you, Pat, what you’d be at— You’d marry your widdy’s sister! The undertaker would drive the hearse That has the big black feather; If there was no money left in your purse, Your friends would club together. They’d look at your cold remains before They followed you down to the ferry, And the coaches standing at the door Would go to the cemetery. But you, if I was once in the box, (I wonder her lips don’t blister!) I tell you, Pat, what you’d be at— You’d marry your widdy’s sister! When you was under the sod I’d sigh, And—if I could do without you— Mebbe I’ve a strapping lad in my eye Would come here and talk about you. A little courtin’ would be divertin’, A kind voice whispering “Biddy!” And a kiss on the sly—for what’s the hurt in A man consoling a widdy? But you, before I was dead at all, (Now don’t deny that you kissed her!) I tell you, Pat, what you’d be at— You’d marry your widdy’s sister! R. H. Stoddard.

“Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey, In the sunshine bright and strong, For this world is fading, Pompey— Massa won’t be with you long; And I fain would hear the south wind Bring once more the sound to me, Of the wavelets softly breaking On the shores of Tennessee. “Mournful though the ripples murmur, As they still the story tell, How no vessels float the banner That I’ve loved so long and well, I shall listen to their music, Dreaming that again I see Stars and strips on sloop and shallop Sailing up the Tennessee; “And, Pompey, while old Massa’s waiting For Death’s last despatch to come, If that exiled starry banner Should come proudly sailing home, You shall greet it, slave no longer— Voice and hand shall both be free That shout and point to Union colors On the waves of Tennessee.” “Massa’s berry kind to Pompey; But old darkey’s happy here, Where he’s tended corn and cotton For dese many a long gone year. Over yonder Missis’ sleeping— No one tends her grave like me: Mebbe she would miss the flowers She used to love in Tennessee.” “’Pears like, she was watching Massa— If Pompey should beside him stay, Mebbe she’d remember better How for him she used to pray; Telling him that way up yonder White as snow his soul would be, If he served the Lord of heaven While he lived in Tennessee.” Silently the tears were rolling Down the poor old dusky face, As he stepped behind his master, In his long accustomed place. Then a silence fell around them, As they gazed on rock and tree Pictured in the placid waters Of the rolling Tennessee,— Master, dreaming of the battle Where he fought by Marion’s side, When he bid the haughty Tarleton Stoop his lordly crest of pride,— Man, remembering how yon sleeper Once he held upon his knee, Ere she loved the gallant soldier, Ralph Vervair of Tennessee. Still the south wind fondly lingers ’Mid the veteran’s silver hair; Still the bondman close beside him Stands behind the old arm-chair, With his dark-hued hand uplifted, Shading eyes, he bends to see Where the woodland, boldly jutting, Turns aside the Tennessee. Thus he watches cloud-born shadows Glide from tree to mountain crest, Softly creeping, aye and ever To the river’s yielding breast. Ha! above the foliage yonder Something flutters wild and free! “Massa! Massa! Hallelujah! The flag’s come back to Tennessee!” “Pompey, hold me on your shoulder; Help me stand on foot once more, That I may salute the colors As they pass my cabin door. Here’s the paper signed that frees you; Give a freeman’s shout with me— ‘God and Union’ be our watchword Evermore in Tennessee!” Then the trembling voice grew fainter, And the limbs refused to stand; One prayer to Jesus—and the soldier Glided to the better land. When the flag went down the river, Man and master both were free; While the ring-dove’s note was mingled With the rippling Tennessee. E. L. Beers.

One day, in a crowded Market-street car, A lady was standing. She had ridden quite far, And seemed much disposed to indulge in a frown, As nobody offered to let her sit down. And many there sat, who, to judge by their dress, Might a gentleman’s natural instincts possess; But who, judged by their acts, make as firmly believe That appearances often will sadly deceive. There were some most intently devouring the news, And some, through the windows, enjoying the views; And others indulged in a make-believe nap, While the lady stood holding on by the strap. At last a young Irishman, fresh from the “sod,” Arose with a smile and most comical nod, Which said quite as plain as in words could be stated, That the lady should sit in the place he’d vacated. “Excuse me,” said Pat, “that I caused you to wait So long before offerin’ to give you a sate; But in truth I was only just waitin’ to see If there wasn’t more gintlemin here beside me.”