Here we have two armies halting,

Waiting but the word "Engage,"

To shake the earth with their fierce battle,
And the heavens jar with rage!
What forbids the lips to utter

To the armies that command ?
Is it not dear Freedom pleading
For the welfare of her land?

Ah, 'tis Equity and Justice
Interposing for the Laws!
It is Liberty and mercy

Pleading with the God of wars!
Cry this to the waiting nations,

Who with blood the land would fill: Tho' internal strife divides us,

We are human brothers still!

Ground your arms! rebellious brothers,

And let Reason take the lead;
Angels will applaud the action,
God will smile upon the deed!
Mankind will sing songs, rejoicing,
And the sound all space shall fill:
Cry this to the waiting nations-
Echo it, each native hill!

J. HENRY HAYWARD.

UNDER THE WASHINGTON ELM,

CAMBRIDGE,

ENGAGEMENT AT PARIS, TENN.,
APRIL 12TH, '62.

Eighty years have passed, and more,
Since under the brave old tree

Our fathers gathered in arms and swore
They would follow the sign their banners bore,
And fight till the land was free.

Half their work was done,

Half is left to do

Cambridge, and Concord, and Lexington!
When the battle is fought and won

What shall be told of you?

Hark-'tis the South wind mourns

Who are the martyrs down!

Ah, the marrow was true in your children's bones
That sprinkled with blood the cursed stones
Of the murder-haunted town!

What if the storm clouds blow? What if the green leaves fall? Better the crushing tempest's throe Than the army of worms that gnawed below: Trample them one and all!

Then, when the battle is won,

And the land from traitors free,

Our children shall tell of the strife begun
When Liberty's second April sun

Was bright on our brave old tree!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.

CAPTURE OF THE FORTS AT NEW MADRID, MO., MARCH 13TH, '62.

How wearily the days go by,

How silence sits a guest at home, While she, with listless step and eye,

Still waits for one who does not come ! The sunshine streams across the floor, A golden, solitary track;

The flies hum in and out the door;

The olden clock goes click-a-clack !
And baby sitting wonder-eyed,

Watches the kitten's noiseless play;
Till sleep comes gently, and she lies
At rest through half the summer day.

When twilight cometh, dim and gray,
She sits a-near the open door;
Before her lies the graveled way,
O'erhung by ancient sycamore;
And through the eve she hears the cry
Of whip-poor-wills, that shun the light;
She sees the star of evening die;

And all around her broods the night.

Then, "By-lo-baby, baby-by!"

She sings her little one to rest;

And muses, with its rosy face

Held warm and close against her breast.

Beside her couch she weary kneels,

And clasps her hands before her face-
Ah, only Christ knows what she feels,
A lonely supplicant for grace!
She prays for one who does not come;
And draws an answer from her hopes,
The while above her silent home,

The stars slide down night's silvery slopes.

Lo! from the distant West a glorious light
Breaks on the darkness of the nation's night!
It mingles with the dawn of victory,

Which gilds the eastern sky so brilliantly,

Until the day is beaming full and clear

Where until now was gloom, and doubt, and fear!
Now in this hour of joy!-this happy day
Our gratitude to God we humbly pay!
He ever gives the battle to the right!

And wrong cannot prevail with all its might!
May He protect the widow and the child,

And soothe their anguish with His blessings mild!
May He be near the wounded heroes too,

And succor those who fought so brave and true!
May he receive the spirit of the slain,
Where they can never know of war again!
A grateful land reveres their memory,
Which shall endure through all Eternity!

J. GORDON EMMONS.

WHO WILL CARE FOR MOTHER NOW?

AFTER THE BATTLE OF VALLE RANCHE, NEW MEXICO,
MARCH 28TH, '62.

WHY am I so weak and weary, ·
See how faint my heated breath,
All around to me seems darkness,
Tell me, comrades-is this Death?
Ah! how well I know your answer,
To my fate I meekly bow,

If you'll only tell me truly

Who will care for mother now.

Who will comfort her in sorrow,
Who will dry the falling tear,
Gently smooth her wrinkled forehead?
Who will whisper words of cheer?
Even now I think I see her

Kneeling, praying for me! how
Can I leave her thus in anguish ?
Who will care for mother now?

Let this knapsack be my pillow,
And my mantle be the sky;
Hasten, comrades, to the battle!
I will like a soldier die.
Soon with angel's I'll be marching,
With bright laurels on my brow;
I have for my country fallen,

Who will care for mother now?

C. C. SAWYER.