"A Rebel Soldier Killed in the Trenches before Petersburg, Va., April 15, 1865."

By a Kentucky Girl.

Killed in the trenches! How cold and bare The inscription graved on the white card there. 'Tis a photograph, taken last Spring, they say, Ere the smoke of battle had cleared away-- Of a rebel soldier--just as he fell, When his heart was pierced by a Union shell; And his image was stamped by the sunbeam's ray, As he lay in the trenches that April day.

Oh God! Oh God! How my woman's heart Thrills with a quick, convulsive pain, As I view, unrolled by the magic of Art, One dreadful scene from the battle-plain:-- White as the foam of the storm-tossed wave, Lone as the rocks those billows lave-- Gray sky above--cold clay beneath-- A gallant form lies stretched in death!

With his calm face fresh on the trampled clay, And the brave hands clasped o'er the manly breast: Save the sanguine stains on his jacket gray, We might deem him taking a soldier's rest. Ah no! Too red is that crimson tide-- Too deeply pierced that wounded side; Youth, hope, love, glory--manhood's pride-- Have all in vain Death's bolt defied.

His faithful carbine lies useless there, As it dropped from its master's nerveless ward; And the sunbeams glance on his waving hair Which the fallen cap has ceased to guard-- Oh Heaven! spread o'er it thy merciful shield, No more to my sight be the battle revealed! Oh fiercer than tempest--grim Hades as dread-- On woman's eye flashes the field of the dead!

The scene is changed: In a quiet room, Far from the spot where the lone corse lies, A mother kneels in the evening gloom To offer her nightly sacrifice. The noon is past, and the day is done, She knows that the battle is lost or won-- Who lives? Who died? Hush! be thou still! The boy lies dead on the trench-barred hill.