And here, where lieth the high of heart,

Drift-white as the bridal veil

That will never be borne by the drooping girl
Who sitteth afar, so pale.

Fall, fast as the tears of the suffering wife,
Who stretcheth despairing hands

Out to the blood-rich battle-fields
That crimson the Eastern sands.

Fall in thy virgin tenderness,
Oh delicate snow, and cover
The graves of our heroes, sanctified,-
Husband and son and lover!

Drift tenderly over those yellow slopes,
And mellow our deep distress,
And put us in mind of the shriven souls
And their mantles of righteousness!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, after the burial of the Massachusetts dead, killed by the mob at Baltimore, penned this adjuration for the hour:

WEAVE no more silks, ye Lyons looms,
To deck our girls for gay delights!
The crimson flower of battle blooms,
And solemn marches fill the nights.

Weave but the flag whose bars to-day
Drooped heavy o'er our early dead,
And homely garments, coarse and grey,
For orphans that must earn their bread!

Keep back your tunes, ye viols sweet,
That pour delight from other lands!
Rouse there the dancer's restless feet-

The trumpet leads our warrior bands.

And ye that wage the war of words
With mystic fame and subtile power,
Go, chatter to the idle birds,

Or teach the lesson of the hour!

Ye Sibyl Arts, in one stern knot
Be all your offices combined!
Stand close, while Courage draws the lot,
The destiny of humankind!

And if that destiny could fail,

The sun should darken in the sky,

The eternal bloom of Nature pale,

And God, and Truth, and Freedom die! •

MR. ALBERT BORNITZ on his humble camp couch penned the following beautiful dream of her from whom his hands, not his soul, was torn.

"WAS IT A DREAM ?”

I sat in her garden (or, was it a dream?)

At the quiet of night, in the middle of June:
Below, through the lawn, flowed a musical stream,
And above, in the cloudless expanse, hung the moon.

Around us the roses were blushing with red,

And the air held the odor of blossom and bud;
On my breast (did I dream it?) was pillowed her head,
And the flame of the roses went into our blood!

The fire of the roses went into our veins,

And the hue of the roses stole over her face! And her sighs, faintly heard, were angelic refrains, As I folded her form in my ardent embrace.

Ah, golden-haired darling! proud hazel-eyed queen !
Have I dreamed it? or was it not audibly sighed,
By a being whose presence was felt, though unseen,
That our souls were forever and ever allied?

It may be that I dreamed it: but after the war,
Should the Fates be propitious, the dream may prove true;
Should I perish in battle-then know that afar,
In a land of romance, I am waiting for you.

BAYARD TAYLOR has charmingly worded the incident which it commemorates, of the old soldier of 1812 pleading with General Scott for a place in the ranks of the Union.

THE VETERAN'S APPEAL.

An old and crippled veteran to the War Department came, He sought the Chief who led him, on many a field of fameThe Chief who shouted "Forward!" where'er his banner rose, And bore his stars in triumph behind the flying foes.

"Have you forgotten, General," the battered soldier cried, "The days of eighteen hundred twelve, when I was at your side?

Have you forgotten Johnson, that fought at Lundy's Lane? 'Tis true, I'm old, and pensioned, but I want to fight again.”

"Have I forgotten?" said the Chief: "my brave old soldier,

No!

And here's the hand I gave you then, and let it tell you so; But you have done your share, my friend; you're crippled, old, and grey,

And we have need of younger arms and fresher blood to-day."

"But, General!" cried the veteran, a flush upon his brow; "The very men who fought with us, they say, are traitors now; They've torn the flag of Lundy's Lane, our old red, white, and blue,

And while a drop of blood is left, I'll show that drop is true.

"I'm not so weak but I can strike, and I've a good old gun To get the range of traitors' hearts, and pick them, one by one. Your Minie rifles and such arms it ain't worth while to try: I couldn't get the hang o' them, but I'll keep my powder dry!"

"God bless you, comrade!" said the Chief-"God bless your loyal heart!

But younger men are in the field, and claim to have their part.
They'll plant our sacred banner in each rebellious town,
And woe, henceforth to any hand, that dares to pull it down !"

66

But, General!"—still persisting, the weeping veteran cried ; "I'm young enough to follow, so long as you're my guide: And some, you know, must bite the dust, and that, at least, can I;

So, give the young ones place to fight, but me a place to die!

"If they should fire on Pickens, let the Colonel in command
Put me upon the rampart, with the flag-staff in my hand;
No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or how the shells may fly,
I'll hold the Stars and Stripes aloft, and hold them till I die!

"I'm ready, General, so you let a post to me be given, Where Washington can see me, as he looks from highest

Heaven,

And say to Putnam at his side, or, may be, General Wayne; 'There stands old Billy Johnson, that fought at Lundy's Lane!'

"And when the fight is hottest, before the traitors fly; When shell and ball are screeching, and bursting in the sky, If any shot should hit me, and lay me on my face,

My soul would go to Washington's, and not to Arnold's place!"

THE following effusion is from a prominent Democratic Editor, Mr. JOHN CLANCY, in New York city, and is significant as showing the complete unanimity of parties at the North as against this causeless war.

A NORTHERN RALLY.

WE'VE borne too long this Southern wrong,
That ever sought to shame us;

The threat and boast, the braggart toast,
"That Southern men would tame us.'

We've bent the knee to chivalry,

Have borne the lie and scorning;
But now, thank God, our Northern blood
Has roused itself from fawning.

The issue's made, our flag's displayed,
Let he who dare retard it;

No cowards here grow pale with fear,
For Northern swords now guard it.

The men that won at Lexington
A name and fame in story,

Were patriot sires, who lit the fires
To lead their sons to glory.