Of love and friendship's holy faith
Could be so easy broken,

That all the true, the good, the great
Could cease to cheer my rising day—
The truest first to pass away-

How would my heart have felt the pang,
More keen than doubt or blame
Of the olden poet that sang,
"Friendship is but a name."

Could I have known how passing brief The time to learn the way,

That all the good and great have trod To realms of ceaseless day;

How soon the course of life would blight,
How great is wrong, how strong is right,
How weak at best is human might,
I would have pressed each passing hour
That winged its rapid flight,

For wisdom's lore and learning's power
To help me do the right.

And thou, the partner of my toils

The purest gift divine;

Could I have known my life would cast

Its shadow over thine;

And could have known the wealth of love
That wreathed my soul as from above,
Surpassing all my fancy wove,

I would have paused twixt hope and fear,

When first thy pledge was given,
And wondered if a boon so dear
Could be the gift of Heaven.

WHERE I WOULD DIE.

A soldier of the old Confederacy while lying on his back in Virginia, with the not very pleasant prospect before him of having his "eyes sealed by strangers' hands," wrote the lines below in his memorandum book.

They may not breathe either the true spirit of the Muse or of the professional soldier but they will probably remind many a gallant Confed of "the days that tried men's souls."

Let me die not on the rolling deep,

Where the wild winds nightly howl a dirge
And billows with ceaseless fury surge
And no silence keep.

Oh! a grave would be too lonely, where
No footsteps fall, no flowers are found,
No voice but ocean's eternal sound,
Let me not die there.

Let me die not on the gory field,
'Neath the lurid light of glory's star
Where blaring bugles mock the loud jar
Of gun, sword and shield;

Where man meets man in direful war; Where death cheats his victim with a name, And rides through the day in smoke and flame, Grim in his red car.

In the wild fury of passion's storm, Hurling to earth the embattled brave, There's no time to smooth the troubled wave Of life's ebbing stream.

Such perhaps is the glory of war,
The patriot's hope, the soldier's aim,
And rejected lover's fitful dream,
But let me die not there.

Let me die not 'neath the city's dome;
Not an eye would weep in all that throng,
Nor falter a step as it moved along,
For a soul gone home.

'Neath the city's glare and splendors rare
Wickedness and crime together band,
And woe and darkness go hand in hand,
Let me die not there.

Let me die not in the stranger's land;

I would not that my head be held,

Nor that my dying eyes be sealed

By a stranger's hand.

The kind stranger's skies are bright and fair, The stranger's home has many a charm,

And the stranger's heart beats true and warmBut let me die not there.

Far beyond the hazy mountain's peak,
And many a river's rolling tide,

And wild ravine deep and valley wide,
And lone hill-top bleak;

There is a spot of all others blest,

Scene of childhood's sports and manhood's care And early sorrow's first rising tear,

The purest and best.

'Tis a spot where holy memories burn; The light of the past plays round it e'er, And the loved and true keep vigil there, For the fond return.

They watch the march of the moving year. Only because I return not home;

Oh! Father, grant when the end may come. That I may die there!

MY BOY IS DEAD.

They told me time would prove a balm
For the heart's bleeding wound,
That rolling years would bring a calm
To soothe my grief profound,

But oh! where is the healing dew
The wings of time should shed?

I have waited the seasons through,
And still my boy is dead.

The summer skies bend bright and fair
O'er earth with pleasures rife,
And on viewless waves of balmy air
Come sounds of joyous life;

But all earth or sky, land or sea,
From pole to ocean's bed,

Can bring but one sad thought to me,
My noble boy is dead.

By day I meet a youthful throng
In ecstacy of life:

I hear the jest, the laugh, the song,
The turmoil and the strife;
I mark the bounding joys of each,
When lessons all are said-

But all to me can only teach
My own bright boy is dead.

And when the daily work is done,
I seek my silent hearth;

It is to think of him that's gone

From the troubled scenes of earth. Oh! he was brilliant, noble, trueBut like some dream he's fled; And though the dream I'd oft renew. My loving boy is dead.

In young ambition's airy sphere