being "Mary Tudor," "Catherine Howard," "Ray Blas," "Count Julian," Carlton," and "Castilian Honor," the first three of which were successfully produced at St. Louis and in southern and western cities, and in New York. In 1848 he was official reporter of the courts of St. Louis. In 1849 he was attached as secretary to the American Legation at Berlin, and was a correspondent of the New York and western press. At this time "Edmond Dantes" a sequel to Dumas' "Count of Monte Cristo," from his pen, was published by the Petersons. Nearly forty years afterwards, in 1884, it was republished. In 1850 a tale of his entitled "Blanche of Artois" received from the Courier at Louisville a prize of $100; and within the two ensuing weeks, two other similar prizes were awarded him for poems. Nothing at this time seemed to come amiss whether plays, prologues, odes, songs, hymns, epithalamiums, epitaphs, tales, treatises, lectures, speeches, reports of sermons, or criminal trials, descriptive pamphlets of panoramas and picture galleries, prose or verse. Quite a number of his fugitive pieces were adapted to popular airs, and are even yet to be heard. In 1851 he went as United States Consul to Venice. In 1852 he conducted the St. Louis Times through the heated Pierce and Scott presidential campaign. In 1853 he superintended the publication by Charles Scribners, at New York, of two illustrated volumes written by himself, entitled "Venice, the City of the Sea"; and wrote for Meyer's "United States Illustrated West," edited by Charles A. Dana, most of the letter press. He received an appointment in the Department of State, under Secretary Marcy. In 1854 he was placed as superintendent of statistics in charge of a report on the Commercial Relalations of the United States with all Foreign Nations, ordered by Congress, which in 1856-57 was issued by the Government in four quarto volumes. He afterwards prepared an annual report on commercial relations, and several pamphlets on the cotton and tobacco trade, and on immigration. In 1858 he was Washington correspondent for several western papers, and in 1861, was placed in charge of a library in the Department of the Interior, where he remained until 1869, when he resigned and took up his residence at his "Eastwood Farm," in Fairfax County, Virginia, moving some years later to "Highland View," a country seat nearer the National Capital and looking down on its spires, monument and dome, and here he still resides, practicing law a little, writing for the press occasionally, preparing a volume of reminiscences of his long and eventful career based on a daily journal of more than forty years; and superintending somewhat extended interests in real estate in Washington and Virginia. In February, 1862, Mr. Flagg married Kate, the daugh

ter of Sidney S. Gallaher, of Jefferson County, West Virginia, and has three sons. E. H. F.

WAR.

THOU hast thy glories, War? Thy flashing arms,
And marshal'd hosts,-thy banners on the breeze,
And dancing plumes, and the wild melody,
Which o'er thy serried ranks riseth and falls
Like choral hymn of seraphs,-these are thine;
And gorgeous pomp, imperial pageantry,
And all the dread magnificence of Death
Decked in his kingliest of robes.-And yet, dark
War,

Thy horrors who shall tell? Who shall conceive,
Save mind omnipotent, thy dread design?
Who comprehend the end of thy decrees,
Or the mysterious purpose of thy birth?
The whirlwind's dreadful rush,-the lightning's

sweep,

Tornado, earthquake, and volcanic wrath,-
The fearful ravages of flame and flood,-
The tumbling billows of the tortur'd main,—
All the wild rage of elemental strife,—
These have their limit,-and they may not
pass:-

These are restrained by an Almighty hand,-
By mercy prompted, and by love withheld;
And through the folds of murkiest tempest-cloud,
The spirit of the storm looks calmly down,
And braids on Heaven's brow the promised bow.
But thou, dread War!-thy throne is built of
skulls

With blood cemented,—yet by man uprear'd!
From thy beginnings who shall tell the end?
What power arrest thy dreadful enginery once
free?

Over thy gore-drenched battle-plains bendeth
No rainbow-smile,-no halo of Heaven's peace.
The widow's wail, the orphan's piteous cry
Echoes the triumph shout of every field.
Alas! on that dark ground no flower of hope
Bloometh to bless the parting spirit's flight-
No flower of hope, save to the patriot's prayer,-
No wreath, save that of Glory's laurel'd dream!
No mother's voice in gentle cadence falls
On the dull ear:-no sister's smile may soothe
The last stern agony. And she-and she,-
The star, perchance, of all his mortal being,-
Life of his life,-the hope of his existence,-
She bends not above his gory rest,
Nor on her lips catches his last low sigh!

Ah, could the heart's wild wishes win with woe
Fulfillment of its hopes,-were its deep yearn-

ings

Sorcerers to bless the soul with all it craved,-
Could the sad dreams of Sorrow conquer Fate,
Or, sighs, and prayers, and tears, and agonies,
Recall the loved and lost,-this weary world
Would be no more man's pilgrimage,

And many a heart, now agonized and wrung,
With joy would leap. Yet, better,-better far
Thy horrors, War, in all their blackest gloom,—
Better the patriot's gory, glorious rest,
And the wild wail of loved ones far away,-
Than on the scutcheon'd banner of our land
One star should pale its beams; one stripe be
dimm'd!

Home of the beautiful!-the brave!-the free!
Glorious in peace, and glorious still in war!
Long may that star-lit banner burn and stream,
Terrific in its gorgeous heraldry,

Along old Ocean's dark blue wave!-long light,
With splendor blazing, the wide welkin dome!
And, as from out that radiant standard-sheet,
Star after star in brilliancy gleams forth,
Oh, may it fling abroad increasing beams
Along the hill-tops of a midnight world!

THE STARS.

AND you, ye glittering hosts
Which on my brow pour out your holy light,
As ye look down from your far heavenly homes
In sweet and mournful beauty on our world
Of sorrow.-ye types of time unending,—
Time which knew no beginning!" sons of God,"
Which erst, when the earth was born, as on ye
held

Your mighty march eternal, shouted forth,
With myriad voice, in sweet sphere-music,
Your rejoicing!-even ye,-beauteous,
And pure, and blessed, as ye are ye stars
At times rush madly from your ranks, and, like
The fairest daughter of fair Pleione,

No more are viewed among the hosts on high!
Yet, ye, bright orbs, were watchers at our birth!-
As radiant then in your proud blazonry

As ye are now! Though many, many storms
Have veiled your glory, ye are glorious still!
Though many lights have vanish'd from your
ranks,

Yet, ye are still, like ocean-sands, untold!
Still ye shine on, as in your earliest hour,
Unshorn of might; and onward,-onward still
The bickering chariot-wheels of planets,
Suns, and systems, in holy harmony
Roll choiring through th' immensity of space!
A wonder and a glory ye are now,

As erst ye were, when our old world was young,

And Chaldea's shepherd-seers, at noon of night, Amid the high, hushed, heavenly stillness

Of their mountain-pastures, worshipp'd and gazed,

And gazed and worshipped.-And ye will beam
As sweetly on our rest, when we are gone,

As ye are beaming on the rest of those
Who now are slumb'ring quietly,—upon
Whose hearts, once passionate, the earth is
chill.-

Ye silver-sandal'd sentinels,-tireless,-
Untired!-ye signal-lights, time-hallowed,—
Kindled along the ramparts of high heaven
By God's own finger!-wardens eternal
On the empyrean-portals planted!—
Altar-fires, before Jehovah's shrine
Forever burning; or, the living eyes

Of seraph-hosts, that round his mighty throne,
Veiling their faces, bow, while myriad voices
Shout in sweet sphere-music their rejoicing,—
Ye are the types of Fate, if ye are not,-
As hoary men of eld have loved to dream,-
Its arbiters, and, on the giant scroll
Of the blue-pillar'd boundless firmament,
Glitt'ring all o'er with gorgeous heraldry,-
Is writ the record of another year!
Star after star ceaseth to shine on high,-
Year after year passeth from human life
And earthly being!

MOTHERHOOD.

A MOTHER's love!

Oh, there is not, in all this cold, and false,
And hollow-hearted world, one fount of love
So pure, so deep, so deathless, strong as death,—
A love, whose joy might swell an angel's breast-
Whose tear would sully not an angel's cheek,—
Upon whose pride a Deity might smile,-
As that, which in a youthful mother's breast
Wells up, while bending o'er her first-born child!
Ocean's dark caves can boast no pearl so pure,
And earth, upon her bosom holds no flower,
And, in her jewel'd depths, no gem so rare!-
A mother's love! Oh, it can bear all suffering,-
It will dare despair, death, peril, ev'n crime,-
All that the spirit shinks from,-drain the cup
Of sorrow to the dregs, nor drop one tear,
Nor know an instant's pause, though met by pride
And petulence from that so wildly loved—
Be it deformed, and swart, and hideous,
Or, bright and beauteous as a poet's dream.

-A Mother's Love.

SHIPS AT SEA.

SHIPS AT SEA.

I HAVE ships that went to sea

More than fifty years ago: None have yet come home to me,

But keep sailing to and fro.

I have seen them, in my sleep, Plunging through the shoreless deep, With tattered sails and battered hulls, While around them screamed the gulls, Flying low, flying low.

I have wondered why they staid

From me, sailing round the world; And I've said, "I'm half afraid

That their sails will ne'er be furled." Great the treasures that they hold,Silks and plumes, and bars of gold; While the spices which they bear Fill with fragrance all the air, As they sail, as they sail.

Every sailor in the port

Knows that I have ships at sea, Of the waves and winds the sport; And the sailors pity me. Oft they come and with me walk, Cheering me with hopeful talk, Till I put my fears aside, And contented watch the tide

Rise and fall, rise and fall.

I have waited on the piers,
Gazing for them down the bay,
Days and nights, for many years,
Till I turned heart-sick away.
But the pilots, when they land,
Stop and take me by the hand,
Saying, "You will live to see
Your proud vessels come from sea,
One and all, one and all."

So I never quite despair,

Nor let hope or courage fail;
And some day, when skies are fair,
Up the bay my ships will sail.

I can buy then all I need,—
Prints to look at, books to read,
Horses, wines, and works of art,
Every thing except a heart:

That is lost, that is lost.

Once when I was pure and young,

Poorer, too, than I am now,
Ere a cloud was o'er me flung,

Or a wrinkle creased my brow,
There was one whose heart was mine;
But she's something now divine,
And though come my ships from sea,
They can bring no heart to me,
Evermore, evermore.

ROBERT BARRY COFFIN.

DRIFTING.

My soul to-day is far away
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;
My winged boat, a bird afloat,
Skims round the purple peaks remote.

Round purple peaks it sails and seeks

Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,

Where high rocks throw, through deeps below,

A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim the mountains swim;
While on Vesuvius' misty brim,

With outstretched hands, the gray smoke stands
O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles o'er liquid miles,
And yonder, bluest of the isles,
Calm Capri waits, her sapphire gates
Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not, if my rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff: With dreamful eyes my spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls where swells and falls
The Bay's deep breast at intervals,
At peace I lie, blown softly by
A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day so mild is heaven's own child,
With earth and ocean reconciled:
The airs I feel around me steal
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail my hand I trail,
Within the shadow of the sail;
A joy intense, the cooling sense,
Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes my spirit flies
Where summer sings and never dies-
O'erveiled with vines, she glows and shines

Among her future oils and wines.

EN VOYAGE.

WHICHEVER way the wind doth blow,
Some heart is glad to have it so;
Then, blow it east, or blow it west,
The wind that blows, that wind is best.

My little craft sails not alone;
A thousand fleets from every zone
Are out upon a thousand seas;
What blows for one a favoring breeze
Might dash another with the shock
Of doom upon some hidden rock.
And so I do not dare to pray
For winds to waft me on my way,
But leave it to a higher Will
To stay or speed me, trusting still
That all is well, and sure that He
Who launched my bark will sail with me
Through storm and calm, and will not fail,
Whatever breezes may prevail,

To land me, every peril past,

Within the sheltered haven at last.

Then, whatsover wind doth blow,

My heart is glad to have it so ;
And, blow it east, or blow it west,
The wind that blows, that wind is best.

CAROLINE A. MASON.