"'Tis well nigh o'er! The damps I feel
Of death upon my senses steal;
Scarce can my fading, glazing eye
The tent, the flag, the heavens descry,
And yet o'er fancy's mystic glass
Old scenes in long procession pass;
Friends, father, mother, kindred bend
Above me, drawing to my end!
Was it the whisper of the breeze
That sobb'd and shivered o'er the trees,
That stirr'd the flapping tent but now,
And seem'd to breathe upon my brow?
Or rather was it not the sigh

Of home, that whispered, fluttering by?
O! mother, give one last caress,
Bend o'er these pallid lips to press;
I know the fervor of thy love,
Come, then, like angel from above;
Yield one embrace, one parting prayer,
To waft my spirit thro' the air.
A vain delusion! Far away
In Northern lands my brethren play;
Full many a long mile lies between
My kindred and this final scene;
I know that never more may fall
My footsteps in my father's hall!"
He died-then Carolina's grave
Closed o'er the ashes of the brave.
His comrades bore him to his rest,
While battle-flags drooped o'er his breast,
The muffled drum its requiem paid,
"Dust unto dust," the Chaplain said,
The volleying shot above him rose,
And the dead slumber'd in repose.

ISAAC M'CLELLAN,

LETTERS FROM HOME.

BATTLE AT FALLS CHURCH, VA.,
SEPTEMBER 29TH, '61.

THE day is passed with its march or drill,'
And the soldiers, tired of their lot in life,
Have gathered together, rare castles to build

Of the times, when peace shall finish the strife; Their sunburnt and bearded faces glow

Hard and unmoved by the camp-fires bright; They seem to be proof against hardships and woe, And their hearts to be callous to love and light.

But, hark! they hear some familiar sound,

And quickly they hush the loud laugh and jest ; And yonder group drop their cards to the ground. And their pipes from their mouths to turn and list, The mail has come! and quick to his feet

The strong man springs like an eager child; Is there naught for me? yes, here it is; sweet And cheering almost, as an old friend's smile.

But his smiles soon turn to groans, alas!

As he reads that his loved one is ending her life, And vainly calling for him to the last,

And he murmurs, "O God! help the soldier's wife.” Near by stands one, reading, his face all aglow,

Loving words from his own brave, true little wife; There a boy, scarce twenty, whose unbidden tears flow, At his mother's warm prayers, for his welfare and life.

Here one reads that another is wooing his lady,

And he clenches his fists with ferocious scowls; Pat there, has his sheet, telling how little Teddy

And the other pigs grow, bless their dear little souls. But there stands one with an anxious face,

Is there none for me? almost breathless he speaks, No, that was the last; and he turns away,

Ashamed of the tears on his sunburnt cheeks,

Would you deem a man less noble and brave,
That the tears could stand upon his cheek?
The One who descended our souls to save,
Did not disdain for sinners to weep.

The soldiers afar from their homes and their friends,
Our prayers and our sympathies daily need.
O, do what you can to make them amends,
For the life which, for our country, they lead.

O, write to them often! our brave soldier boys!
Wives, mothers, and sisters, and sweethearts dear!
Write cheering and hopeful, of love, and the joys
That await them again when peace shall reign here.
A letter from home hath a magic spell,

To make them forget, for a time, all care,

In the thought that loved ones at home wish them well, And remember them often in thought and in prayer.

ANONYMOUS.

LISTEN.

AFTER THE BATTLE OF GREEN BRIAR, VA.,
OCTOBER 3D, '61.

LISTEN! did ye not hear that sound
Echoing from afar,

Faintly o'er the distant hills

Like some funeral car?

Did ye not hear that mournful cry,

That agonizing prayer,

Which from many a burdened heart
Ascends in deep despair?

Listen! that same sad, mournful cry,
That same bewailing prayer,

Extends its cries from shore to shore,
With anguish rends the air!
For on yon blood-stained, field
Full many a brother lies,

With upturned face and pleading look

The noble hero dies!

Listen from yon battalions height
Each distant grassy plain

Where lie the gasping multitude

Of vanquished heroes slain!

That prayer doth rise in louder strains

With accents still more deep!

It is a plea for Heaven to aid
The dear old flag to keep.

Listen! along the garden walks
Of yonder cottage low,

A maiden treads the vine clad bower
With lingering steps, and slow,

A paper in her hand she holds

Which tells of victories won, and lost,
Of hard-earned fame, and manly toil,
Which blood and treasure both have cost.

Listen! she's reading the list of those
Who fell in the deadly strife,

Of those who in their country's cause
Delivered up their life.

But lo! her brother's name she spies

Ere half the list is read;

Her brother's name-Great God! is there,

Down with the ghastly dead!

Listen! a cry of deep despair,

A mournful cry of pain

She utters, while in tears she shrieks:

"My brother too, is slain!"

And then she glances once again

Upon the precious name,

Alas! there can be no mistake,

Her brother too, is slain!

Listen! how many, many groans

Are borne upon the air,

From hearts that's tasted of the cup

Of bitterest despair!

Great God! how long must we behold

Such bloody times as these?

How long ere Truth shall reign o'er all,
And Freedom kiss the breeze?

J. R. PENHOLLOW.