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And once again a fire of hell

Rain'd on the Russian quarters,
With scream of shot, and burst of shell,

And bellowing of the mortars !

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim

For a singer dumb and gory ; And English Mary mourns for him

Who sang of “ Annie Laurie."

Sleep, soldiers ! still in honor'd rest

Your truth and valor wearing : The bravest are the tenderest,The loving are the daring.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE.

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest
By all their Country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung :
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall a while repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

WILLIAM COLLINS.

ODE.

(Sung on the occasion of decorating the graves of the Confederate dead at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S. C., 1867.)

SLEEP sweetly in your humble

graves, Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause ! Though yet no marble column craves

The pilgrim here to pause,

In seeds of laurel in the earth

The blossom of your fame is blown,
And somewhere, waiting for its birth,

The shaft is in the stone !

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years

Which keep in trust your storied tombs, Behold ! your sisters bring their tears,

And these memorial blooms.

Small tributes! but your shades will smile

More proudly on these wreaths to-day, Than when some cannon-moulded pile

Shall overlook this bay.

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies!

There is no holier spot of ground Than where defeated valor lies,

By mourning beauty crowned !

HENRY TIMROD.

TO LUCASTA,

ON GOING TO THE WARS.

TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind,

That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,

To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field ;
And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such

As you too shall adore ;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honor more.

Richard LOVELAÇE.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage-door

Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet,

In playing there, had found;

He came to ask what he had found
That was so large and smooth and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,

And, with a natural sigh, " 'Tis some poor fellow's skull,” said he, “Who fell in the great victory.

“ I find them in the garden, For there's

many

hereabout; And often, when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men,” said he, “Were slain in that great victory.”

“Now tell us what 'twas all about,”

Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes, “Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for."

“It was the English,” Kaspar cried,

“Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for

I could not well make out ; But everybody said,” quoth he,

That 'twas a famous victory.

My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

“With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide;
And many a childing mother then,

And new-born baby died ;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

“ They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won,-
For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun ;
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

* Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

And our good prince Eugene.”
“Why, 'twas a very wicked thing !"

Said little Wilhelmine.
Nay, nay, my little girl !" quoth he,
It was a famous victory.

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