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There were tears in manly eyes, then, and manly heads were

bowed,

Though the balls flew thick around them, and the cannons thundered loud;

They gathered round the spot where the dying soldier lay, To catch the broken accents he was struggling then to say; And a change came o'er the features where death had set his marks,

"It is growing very dark, mother—very, very dark.”

Far away his mind had wandered, to Ohio's hills and vales, Where the loved ones watched and waited with that love that never fails;

He was with them as in childhood, seated in the cottage door,

Where he watched the evening shadows slowly creeping on the floor;

Bend down closely, comrades, closely, he is speaking now, and hark!-

"It is growing very dark, mother-very, very dark."

He was dreaming of his mother, that her loving hand was pressed

On his brow for one short moment, ere he sank away to rest; That her lips were now imprinting a kiss upon his cheek, And a voice he well remembered spoke so soft, and low, and

meek.

Her gentle form was near him, her footstep he could mark, "But 'tis growing very dark, mother-mother, very dark."

And the eye that once had kindled, flashing forth with pa triot light,

Slowly gazing, vainly strove to pierce the gathering gloom of night,

Ah! poor soldier! ah! fond mother! you are severed now for

aye,

Cold and pulseless, there he lies now, where he breathed his

life away.

Through this heavy cloud of sorrow shines there not one heavenly spark?

Ah! it has grown dark, mother-very, very dark.

Gather round him, soldiers, gather, fold his hands and close

his eyes,

Near another one is dying, "Rally round our flag!" he cries;

"Heaven protect it-fight on, comrades, speedily avenge our death!"

Then his voice grew low and faltering, slowly came each painful breath.

Two brave forms lay side by side there; death had loved a shining mark,

And two sad mothers say, "It has grown dark, ah! very dark."-Z. R.

THE BLACK HORSE GUARD.

A TALE OF THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.

WE waited for their coming beside that craggy "run,"
And gaily shone their trappings, and glistened in the sun;
We saw the "well-kept" horses, and marked the stalwart men,
And each Zouave his rifle took, and tried the charge again.

On, on they came in close-set ranks. O, 'twas a goodly sight!

Their horses shone like ebony, their arms were burnished bright;

A breathless silence; then there came a ringing down the

van,

"Lie low! Remember Ellsworth! let each one pick his man."

A thousand rifle-flashes; then shrieks and groans of pain, And clouds of dust uprising over the fatal plain, 'Mid which the gleaming bayonets seemed like the lightning's flash,

The cry, dash!

"Remember Ellsworth," and the deadly forward

A silence;-horses riderless, and scouring from the fray, While here and there a trooper spurs his worn steed away. The smoke dispels-the dust blows off-subsides the fatal

stir;

Virginia's Black Horse Cavalry is with the things that

were.

A wailing on the sunny slopes along the Shenandoah,

A weeping where the York and James' deep-rolling torrents pour;

Where Rappahannock peaceful glides, on many a fertile plain, A cry of anguish for the loved who ne'er may come again.

The widow clasps the fatherless in silent, speechless grief, Or weeps as if in floods of tears the soul could find relief; The Old Dominion weeps, and mourns full many a gallant

son,

Who sleeps upon that fatal field beside that craggy run.

Oh, matrons of Virginia! with you has been the blame;
It was for you to bend the twig before its ripeness came;
For you a patriot love to form, a loyal mind to nurse;
But ye have left your task undone, and now ye feel the curse.
Edward Sprague Rand, Jr.

NOT YET.

Он, country, marvel of the earth!
Oh, realm to sudden greatness grown!
The age that gloried in thy birth,
Shall it behold thee overthrown?
Shall traitors lay that greatness low?

No! Land of Hope and Blessing, No!

And we who wear thy glorious name,
Shall we, like cravens, stand apart,
When those whom thou hast trusted, aim
The death-blow at thy generous heart?
Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo!
Hosts rise in harness, shouting, No!

And they who founded, in our land,
The power that rules from sea to sea,
Bled they in vain, or vainly planned
To leave their country great and free?
Their sleeping ashes, from below,

Send up the thrilling murmur, No!

Knit they the gentle ties which long
These sister States were proud to wear,
And forged the kindly links so strong,
For idle hands in sport to tear-
For scornful hands aside to throw ?
No! by our fathers' memory, No!

Our humming marts, our iron ways,

Our wind-tossed woods on mountain crest, The hoarse Atlantic, with his bays,

The calm, broad ocean of the West, And Mississippi's torrent flow,

And loud Niagara, answer, No!

Not yet the hour is nigh, when they
Who deep in Eld's dim twilight sit,
Earth's ancient kings, shall rise and say,
"Proud country, welcome to the pit!
So soon art thou, like us, brought low?"
No! sullen group of shadows, No!

For now, behold, the Arm that gave
The victory in our fathers' day,
Strong, as of old, to guard and save—
That mighty Arm which none can stay—
On clouds above, and fields below,

Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No!

William Cullen Bryant.

THE ROMAN TWINS.

"Twas told by Roman soothsayers, What time they read the stars, That Romulus and Remus

Sprang from the loins of Mars: That Romulus and Remus

Were twin-born on the earth,

And in the lap of a she-wolf

Were suckled from their birth.

By Jove! I think this legend-
This ancient Roman myth-

For mine own time, and mine own clime,
Is full of pregnant pith.

Romulus stood with Remus,
And plowed the Latian loam,
And traced, by yellow Tiber,
The nascent walls of Rome;

Then laughed the dark twin, Remus,
And scoffed his brother's toil,

And over the bounds of Romulus
He leaped upon his soil.
By Jove! I think that Remus
And Romulus at bay,

Of Slavery's strife and Liberty's life,
Were antetypes that day!

The sucklings of the she-wolf
Stood face to face in wrath,
And Romulus swept Remus
Like stubble from his path;
Then crested he with temples

The seven hills of his home,
And builded there, by Tiber,
The eternal walls of Rome!
By Jove! I think this legend
Hath store of pregnant pith;

For mine own time and mine own clime; 'Tis more than Roman myth!

Like Romulus and Remus,
Out of the loins of Mars,
Our Slavery and our Liberty
Were born from cruel wars.
To both the Albic she-wolf
Her bloody suck did give,
And one must slay the other,
Ere one in peace can live.
By Jove! this brave old legend

Straight to our hearts comes home-
When Slavery dies, shall grandly rise
Freedom's Eternal Rome!

A. J. H. Duganne.

THE WATCHERS.

BESIDE a stricken field I stood;
On the torn turf, on grass, on wood,
Hung heavily the dew of blood.

Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain;
But all the air was quick with pain,

And gusty sighs and tearful rain.

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