You

A mile or so away,

On a little mound, Napoleon

Stood on our storming day;

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,

Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army leader Lannes

Waver at yonder wall."

Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew

A rider, bound on bound Full galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect

By just his horse's mane, a boy!
You hardly could suspect

(So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through),

You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace

We've got you Ratisbon!

The marshal's in the market place,

And you'll be there anon

To see your flag-bird flap his vans

Where I, to heart's desire,

Perched him!" The chief 's eye flashed; his plans

Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes

A film the mother eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes:

"You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said:

"I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead.

-Robert Browning.

OLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;

Dream of battled fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,

Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

These rocks may have life,

Lay me down in this hollow,
We are out of the strife.

By heavens! the foeman may track me in blood,
For this hole in my breast is outpouring a flood.

No! no surgeon for me; he can give me no aid;
The surgeon I want is pickaxe and spade.
What, Morris, a tear? Why, shame on ye, man!
I thought you a hero; but since you began
To whimper and cry like a girl in her teens,
By George! I don't know what the devil it means!

Well! well! I am rough; 'tis a very rough school,
This life of a trooper-but yet I'm no fool!
I know a brave man, and a friend from a foe;
And, boys, that you love me I certainly know;

But wasn't it grand
[sand!
When they came down the hill over sloughing and
But we stood-did we not?-like immovable rock,
Unheeding their balls and repelling their shock.
Did you mind the loud cry

When, as turning to fly,

Our men sprang upon them, determined to die? O, wasn't it grand!

God help the poor wretches that fell in that fight;
No time was there given for prayer or for flight;
They fell by the score, in the crash, hand to hand,
And they mingled their blood with the sloughing and
sand.

Huzza!

Great heavens! this bullet hole gapes like a grave;

A curse on the aim of the traitorous knave!

Is there never a one of ye knows how to pray, Or speak for a man as his life ebbs away?

Pray!

Pray!

Our Father! Our Father! . . . why don't ye proceed? Can't you see I am dying? Great God, how I bleed! Ebbing away!

Ebbing away!

The light of the day Is turning to gray.

Pray!

Pray!

Our Father in Heaven-boys, tell me the rest,
While I stanch the hot blood from this hole in my

breast.

There's something about the forgiveness of sin— Put that in! put that in !—and then

I'll follow your words, and say an amen.

Here, Morris, old fellow, get hold of my hand; And Wilson, my comrade-O, wasn't it grand When they came down the hill like a thunder-charged cloud! [head;

Where's Wilson, my comrade?-Here, stoop down your Can't you say a short prayer for the dying and dead?

"Christ God, who died for sinners all,

Hear thou this suppliant wanderer's cry; Let not e'en this poor sparrow fall Unheeded by thy gracious eye. "Throw wide thy gates to let him in, And take him, pleading, to thine arms; Forgive, O Lord! his life-long sin,

And quiet all his fierce alarms."

God bless you, my comrade, for saying that hymn;
It is light to my path when my eye has grown dim.
I am dying-bend down till I touch you once more-
Don't forget me, old fellow-God prosper this war!
Confusion to traitors!-keep hold of my hand-
And float the OLD FLAG o'er a prosperous land!
-John W. Watson.

H

OLD the lantern aside, and shudder not so; There's more blood to see than this stain on the snow;

There are pools of it, lakes of it, just over there,

And fixed faces all streaked, and crimson-soaked hair.
Did you think, when we came, you and I, out to-night
To search for our dead, you would be a fair sight?

You're his wife; you love him-yon think so; and I
Am only his mother; my boy shall not lie
In a ditch with the rest, while my arms can bear
His form to a grave that mine own may soon share
So, if your strength fails, best go sit by the hearth,
While his mother alone seeks his bed on the earth.

You will go! then no faintings! Give me the light,
And follow my footsteps-my heart will lead right,
Ah, God! what is here? a great heap of slain,
All mangled and gory!--what horrible pain
These beings have died in! Dear mothers, ye weep,
Ye weep, oh, ye weep o'er this terrible sleep'

More! more! Ah! I thought I could never more know

Grief, horror, or pity, for aught here below,

Since I stood in the porch and heard his chief tell
How brave was my son, how he gallantly fell.
Did they think I cared then to see officers stand
Before my great sorrow, each hat in each hand?

Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor fright,
That your red hands turn over toward this dim light
These dead men that stare so? Ah, if you had kept
Your senses this morning ere his comrades had left,
You had heard that his place was worst of them all—
Not 'mid the stragglers-where he fought he would fall.
There's the moon through the clouds: O Christ what
a scene !

Dost Thou from Thy heavens o'er such visions lean, And still call this cursed world a footstool of Thine?

What wild hopes flash

He's not here-and not here.
through
My thoughts, as, foot-deep I stand in this dread dew,
And cast up a prayer to the blue, quiet sky!

Was it you, girl, that shrieked? Ah! what face doth lie

Upturned toward me there, so rigid and white?

O God, my brain reels! 'Tis a dream. My old sight Is dimmed with these horrors. My son! oh, my son ! Would I had died for thee, my own, only one!

There, lift off your arms; let him come to the breast
Where first he was lulled, with my soul's hymn to rest.
Your heart never thrilled to your lover's fond kiss
As mine to his baby-touch; was it for this?

He was yours, too; he loved you Yes, yes, you're right.

Forgive me, my daughter, I'm maddened to-night. Don't moan so, dear child; you're young, and your years

May still hold fair hopes; but the old die of tears.
Yes, take him again ;-ah, don't lay your face there;
See the blood from his wound has stained your loose
hair.

How quiet you are! Has she fainted ?-her cheek
Is cold as his own. Say a word to me-speak!
Am I crazed? Is she dead? Has her heart broke first?
Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is worst.
I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone with these dead;
Those corpses are stirring; God help my poor head !

I'll sit by my children until the men come
To bury the others, and then we'll go home.

Why, the slain are all dancing! Dearest, don't move.
Keep away from my boy; he's guarded by love.
Lullaby lullaby; sleep, sweet darling, sleep!
God and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep!
-Anonymous.

P from the South at break of day,

U Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,

The affrighted air with a shudder bore,

Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door,
The terrible grumble and rumble, and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar;
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold,
As he thought of that stake in that fiery fray,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town

A good, broad highway leading down;

And there through the flush of the morning light,

A steed as black as the steeds of night,
Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight,
As if he knew the terrible need,

He stretched away with his utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away,

Still sprung from those hoofs, thundering south,
The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth;
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.

The heart of the steed, and the heart of the master

These in the robings of glory,

Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet : Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the laurel, the Blue,

Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours,
The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers,

Alike for the friend and the foe:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the roses, the Blue,
Under the lilies, the Gray.

So, with an equal splendor,
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,

On the blossom blooming for all :

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Broidered with gold, the Blue,

Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Wet with the rain, the Blue,
Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won : Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the blossoms, the Blue,

Under the garlands, the Gray.
No more shall the war cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever,
When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Love and tears for the Blue,

Tears and love for the Gray.
-F. M.