How quiet you are! Is cold as his own. There, lift off your arms; let him come to the breast 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. Has she fainted ?—her cheek Am I crazed? Is she dead? Has her heart broke first? I'll sit by my children until the men come UP Sheridan's Ride. P from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door, But there is a road from Winchester town A good, broad highway leading down; A steed as black as the steeds of night, He stretched away with his utmost speed; Still sprung from those hoofs, thundering south, The heart of the steed, and the heart of the master [Many of the women of the South, animated by noble sentiments, have shown themselves impartial in their offerings made to the memory of the dead. They have strewn flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the National soldiers.] 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, Alike for the friend and the foe: So, with an equal splendor, On the blossom blooming for all : Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Mellowed with gold, the Gray. So, when the summer calleth, Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; Under the garlands, the Gray. Waiting the judgment day; Tears and love for the Gray. There, lift off your arms; let him come to the breast 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. To Their Memory. O the memory of the dead, Flowers, sweet flowers, Over hearts that ceased to beat, In the battle's smoke and heat, Scatter flowers, rare flowers. To the memory of that time, Brave soldiers touched the battle line, Gather flowers, bright flowers. Let their fragrant incense rise, Blue and the Gray. To the memory noble sentiments, have shown themselv alike on the graves of the Confederate and Sheridan's Ride. [P from the South at break of day, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, And wider still those billows of war Under the Waiting Broidered Mellowe So, when the s On forest an The cooling Waiting Wet wi Sadly, but not The gener No braver No more sha Or the win They banish When they Under t Waiti Love an their walls, ails; med to full ce ire, He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away. Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan! Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man placed on high, And when their statues are Under the dome of the Union skyThe American soldiers' Temple of Fame, There with the glorious general's name, Be it said in letters both bold and bright: "Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the light, From Winchester-twenty miles away." ue and the Gray. -Thomas Buchanan Read oble sentiments, have shown themselves impartial in their offerings made to e on the graves of the Confederate and the Natal soldiers.] Under the sad and the dew, Waiting the ment day; Broidered with gull the Blue, Mellowed with gold, the Gray. calleth, So, when the summer Wer with the rain, the Blue. Wer with the rain, the Gray. 11ating the judgment day the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever, fading, When they laurel the graves of our dead! L'ader the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray. -F. M... 409 R. bor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, est from all petty vexations that meet us, est from sin promptings that ever entreat us, Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. Jork-and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow; York-thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow; ie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow; Work with a stout heart and resolute will! Labor is health! Lo, the husbandman reaping, ents of Labor. hand as well as toil of the head-in toil to vidual life, as well as in toil to promote some tends to supply man's wants, to increase man's rd, all labor that is honest-is honorable too. brass, and makes the "wilderness rejoice and , and scatters the seeds, and reaps the harvest, d, the staff of life. Labor, tending the pastures ng the soil, provides with daily sustenance the Labor gathers the gossamer web of the catere from the flock, and weaves it into raiment soft le prince and the gray gown of the peasant being and splits the slate, and quarries the stone, Stonewall Jackson's Way. COME, cheerily, men, pile on the rails. And stir the camp-fires bright! No matter if the canteen fails, We'll have a roaring night! Of Stonewall Jackson's way! We see him now-his old slouched hat His shrewd, dry smile, his speech so pat, The blue light Elder knows 'em well, Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Hats off! Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! Attention! 'Tis his way! Kneeling upon his native sod In forma pauperis to God "Stretch forth thine arm! Lay bare thy rod! Amen!" That's Stonewall's way! He's in the saddle now-"Fall in! Steady, the whole brigade! No matter if our shoes be worn, No matter if our feet be torn- The sun's bright lances rout the mists "Pope and his Yankees, whipped before! Ah, woman! wait and watch, and yearn Ah, maiden weep on, hope on, pray on, The Burial of Sir John Moore. JOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, NOT As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning- No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Not in a sheet or shroud we wound him; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun Of the enemy sullenly firing. |