Silent the orderly, watching with tears in his eyes

as his officer scanned Four short pages of writing. What's this, about

Marthy Virginia's hand '?” Swift from his honeymoon he, the dead soldier, had

gone from his bride to the strife; Never they met again, but she had written him,

telling of that new life, Born in the daughter, that bound her still closer and

closer to him as his wife. Laying her baby's hand down on the letter, around

it she traced a rude line : “If you would kiss the baby,” she wrote, “ you must

kiss this outline of mine."

There was the shape of the hand on the page, with

the small, chubby fingers outspread. “Marthy Virginia's hand, for her pa,”—so the words

on the little palm said. Never a wink slept the colonel that night, for the

vengeance so blindly fulfilled, Never again woke the old battle-glow when the bul

lets their death-note shrilled. Long ago ended the struggle, in union of brother

hood happily stilled ; Yet from that field of Antietam, in warning and

token of love's command, See! there is lifted the hand of a baby—Marthy Virginia's hand!


THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

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 bayon

ets turning, By the strug

gling moonbeam's mis

ty light, And the lan

tern dimly burning.



No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his

head, And we far away on the billow !

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid himBut little he'll reck if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we knew by the distant random gun

That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-

But we left him alone in his glory.





CLOSE his eyes, his work is done!

What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon, or set of sun,

Hand of man, or kiss of woman ?

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow !
What cares he? he cannot know:

Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight,

Proved his truth by his endeavor
Let him sleep in solemn night,
Sleep for ever and for ever.

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow !
What cares he? he cannot know :

Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars,

Roll the drum and fire the volley !
What to him are all our wars,
What but death bemocking folly?

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow !
What cares he? he cannot know :

Lay him low!

Leave him to God's watching eye,

Trust him to the Hand that made him.
Mortal love sweeps idly by :
God alone has power to aid him.

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow !
What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!




eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the

Lord : He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes

of wrath are stored ; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible

swift sword :

His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred

circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews

and damps; Í can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps :

His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnish'd rows of

steel : “ As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my

grace shall deal ; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent

with his heel,

Since God is marching on.”

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never

call retreat ; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judg

ment-seat :

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