A woman, and a little girl
With hair like golden light."
And at the thought broke forth, at last,
The cry of anguish wild,

That would no longer be repressed,

་་

"O God! my wife and child!"'

"And," said the other dying man,

"Across the Georgia plain

There watch and wait for me loved ones
I'll never see again.

A little girl with dark bright eyes
Each day waits at the door;
The father's step, the father's kiss,
Will never meet her more.

"To-day we sought each other's lives;
Death levels all that now,

For soon before God's mercy-seat
Together shall we bow.

Forgive each other while we may;
Life's but a weary game;

And, right or wrong, the morning sun
Will find us dead the same."

And the little girl with golden hair,
And one with dark eyes bright,

On Hampshire's hills and Georgia plain,
Were fatherless that night.

UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES.

What are the thoughts that are stirring his breast? What is the mystical vision he sees?

"Let us pass over the river, and rest

Under the shade of the trees?"

Has he grown sick of his toils and his tasks?
Sighs the worn spirit for respite or ease?
Is it a moment's cool halt that he asks,
Under the shade of the trees?

Is it the far Shenandoah, whose rush

Ort-time had come to him borne on the breeze, Over his tent, as he lay in the hush,

Under the shade of the trees?

Nay, though the rasp of the flesh was so sore, Faith, that had yearnings far keener than these, Saw the soft sheen of the Thitherward Shore, Under the shade of the trees.

Caught the high psalms of ecstatic delight,Heard the harps harping like soundings of seas,

Saw earth's pure-hearted ones walking in white
Under the shade of the trees.

Surely for him it was well,-it was best,

War worn, yet asking no furlough of ease,
There to pass over the river, and rest
Under the shade of the trees.

PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM.

Insensible to high heroic deeds

Is there a spirit clothed in mortal weeds,
Who at the patriot's moving story,
Devoted to his country's good,

Devoted to his country's glory,

Shedding for freeman's rights his generous blood-
Listeneth not with deep heaved sigh,

Quivering nerve and glistening eye,
Feeling within a spark of heavenly flame,

That with the hero's worth may humble kindred claim? If such there be, still let him plod

On the dull, foggy paths of care,

Nor raise his eyes from the dank sod

To view creation fair:

What boots to him the wondrous works of God;
His soul with brutal things hath ta'en its earthly lair.

DEAR COUNTRY MINE!

Dear country mine! far in that viewless west,
And ocean-warded, strife thou too hast known;
But may thy sun hereafter bloodless shine,
And may thy way be onward without wrath,
And upward on no carcass of the slain;
And if thou smitest let it be for peace
And justice-not in hate, or pride, or lust
Of empire. Mayst thou ever be, O land,
Noble and pure as thou art free and strong;
So shalt thou lift a light for all the world
And for all time, and bring the Age of Peace.

BORDER SONG.

March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,
All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border,
Many a banner spread
Flutters above your head,

Many a crest that is famous in story,
Mount and make ready then,

Sons of the mountain glen,

Fight for the queen and the old Scottish glory.
Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing,
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;

Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing,
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
Trumpets are sounding,
War-steeds are bounding,

Stand to your arms, then, and march in good order.
England shall many a day
Tell of the bloody fray,

When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.

181.-FROM "THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL." JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

For a cap and bells our lives we pay,

Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking:

'Tis heaven alone that is given away,

'Tis only God may be had for the asking;
No price is set on the lavish summer;
June may be had by the poorest comer.
And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays :
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;

The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys;

The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,

And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer. Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;

Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;

The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky,

That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we should not lack;

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,-
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer.
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!

182.-THE WAY TO HEAVEN.
J. G. HOLLAND.

Heaven is not gained at a single bound;
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit round by round.
I count this thing to be grandly true,

That a noble deed is a step towards God,—
Lifting the soul from the common sod

To a purer air and a broader view

We rise by things that are 'neath our feet;

By what we have mastered of good and gain; By the pride deposed and the passion slain, And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,

When the morning calls us to life and light, But our hearts grow weary, and, ere the night, Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray,

And we think that we mount the air on wings
Beyond the recall of sensual things,
While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.
Wings for the angels, but feet for the men!

We may borrow the wings to find the way-
We may hope and resolve and aspire and pray,
But our feet must rise, or we fall again.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown

From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone. Heaven is not reached ai a single bound;

But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit round by round.

183.-IN MEMORIAM.

TENNYSON.

Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove:
Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Thou madest life in man and brute;
Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot
Is on the skull which thou hast made.

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
Thou madest man, he knows not why;
He thinks he was not made to die;
And thou hast made him: thou art just.
Thou seemest human and divine,

The highest, holiest manhood, thou:
Our wills are ours, we know not how;
Our wills are ours, to make them thine.
Our little systems have their day;

They have their day and cease to be:
They are but broken lights of thee,
And thou O Lord, art more than they.
We have but faith, we cannot know;
For knowledge is of things we see;
And yet we trust it comes from thee,
A beam in darkness: let it grow.

Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence in us dwell;
That mind and soul according well,
May make one music as before,
But vaster. We are fools and slight;
We mock thee when we do not fear:
But help thy foolish ones to bear;
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.