ON GUARD.

In love's enchanting light
Memory lies dreaming there.

Faint, through the silence come
From the foes' grim array,
Growl of impatient drum
Eager for morrow's fray;
Echo of song and shout,
Curse and carousal glee,

As in a fiendish rout

Demons at revelry.

Close, in the gloomy shade
Danger lurks ever nigh
Grasping his dagger-blade
Crouches th' assassin spy;

Shrinks at the guardsman's tread,

Quails 'fore his gleaming eyes, Creeps back with baffled hate, Cursing his cowardice.

Naught can beguile his bold,

Unsleeping vigilance; E'en in the fireflame, old

Visions unheeded dance.

Fearless of lurking spy,

Scornful of wassail-swell,

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THE CAVALRY CHARGE.

With an undaunted eye

Marches the sentinel.

Low, to his trusty gun
Eagerly whispers he,
“Wait, with the morning sun
March we to victory.
Fools, into Satan's clutch

Leaping ere dawn of day :
He who would fight must watch,
He who would win must pray."

Pray for the night hath wings;
Watch for the foe is near;
March! till the morning brings
Fame-wreath or soldier's bier.
So shall the poet write,

When all hath ended well,
"Thus through the nation's night
Marched Freedom's sentinel.”

THE CAVALRY CHARGE.

BY FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.

WITH bray of the trumpet

And roll of the drum,

THE CAVALRY, CHARGE.

And keen ring of bugle,

The cavalry come.

Sharp clank the steel scabbards,
The bridle-chains ring,

And foam from red nostrils

The wild chargers fling.

Tramp! tramp! o'er the greensward

That quivers below,
Scarce held by the curb-bit
The fierce horses go!
And the grim-visaged colonel,
With ear-rending shout,
Peals forth to the squadrons

The order -"Trot out!"

One hand on the sabre,
And one on the rein,
The troopers move forward
In line on the plain.

As rings the word "Gallop!"
The steel scabbards clank,
And each rowel is pressed
To a horse's hot flank :

And swift is their rush

As the wild torrent's flow, When it pours from the crag On the valley below.

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Resistless and reckless

Of aught may betide,
Like demons, not mortals,
The wild troopers ride.
Cut right! and cut left!
For the parry who needs?
The bayonets shiver

Like wind-shattered reeds.
Vain - vain the red volley
That bursts from the square,

The random-shot bullets

Are wasted in air.
Triumphant, remorseless,
Unerring as death,-
No sabre that's stainless

Returns to its sheath.

The wounds that are dealt

By that murderous steel

SNOW SCULPTURE.

Will never yield case

For the surgeon to heal.
Hurrah! they are broken
Hurrah! boys, they fly —
None linger save those
Who but linger to die.

Rein up your hot horses

And call in your men, The trumpet sounds "Rally To color" again.

Some saddles are empty,

Some comrades are slain,

And some noble horses

Lie stark on the plain,

But war's a chance game, boys,
And weeping is vain.

SNOW SCULPTURE.

BY GEORGE W. BUNGAY.

N hills and forests bare and brown,
I see the silent snow come down,
So soft and white,

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