It was the negro cabin boy;
He rose and fell with every wave.
They called to him-"Shipmate, ahoy!"
No answer to their call he gave.

And, gazing still, they saw at length,
The captain's sword was in his teeth;
A weight beyond his feeble strength,
That dragged him to the gulf beneath!

They shouted to him once again,—
"Ho, shipmate! never mind the cost!
"You are too weak; you strive in vain ;
"LET GO THAT SWORD, or you are lost!"

He heard them not, or would not hear,
And hastily they manned the boat,
And rowed for him. As they drew near
He lost the strength to keep afloat.

He sank! Thank God, he rose once more!
They caught him, drew him safe on board;
They brought him senseless to the shore,
And by his side the captain's sword!

They watched him long; he woke at last;
The pale lips parted for a word;
On Morris a bright glance he cast,

With, "Captain, I have kept your sword!"

R. W. R.

DEATH, THE PEACE-MAKER.

A WASTE of land, a sodden plain,
A lurid sunset sky,

With clouds that fled and faded fast
In ghostly phantasy;

A field upturned by trampling feet,
A field up-piled with slain,

With horse and rider blent in death,
Upon the battle-plain.

The dying and the dead lie low;
For them no more shall rise

The evening moon, nor midnight stars,
Nor daylight's soft surprise.

They will not wake to tenderest call,
Nor see again each home,

Where waiting hearts shall throb and break,
When this day's tidings come.

Two soldiers, lying as they fell
Upon the reddened clay-
In daytime, foes; at night, in peace,
Breathing their lives away.

Brave hearts had stirred each manly breast;

Fate only made them foes,

And lying, dying, side by side,

A softened feeling rose.

"Our time is short," one faint voice said;

66

'To-day we've done our best

On different sides. What matters now?

To-morrow we're at rest.

Life lies behind. I might not care

For only my own sake,

But far away are other hearts

That this day's work will break.

"Among New-Hampshire's snowy hills There pray for me to-night

A women, and a little girl

With hair like golden light"

And at the thought broke forth, at last,

The cry of anguish wild

That would no longer be repressed

"O God! my wife and child!"

"And," said the other dying man, "Across the Georgia plain

There watch and wait for me loved ones

I'll never see again.

A little girl, with dark, bright eyes,

Each day waits at the door;

The father's step, the father's kiss,
Will never meet her more.

"To-day we sought each other's lives;
Death levels all that now,

For soon before God's mercy-seat
Together we shall bow.

Forgive each other while we may,
Life's but a weary game,

And right or wrong, the morning sun
Will find us, dead, the same."

The dying lips the pardon breathe,
The dying hands entwine;
The last ray dies, and over all

The stars from heaven shine;

And the little girl with golden hair
And one with dark eyes bright,

On Hampshire's hills and Georgia plain,
Were fatherless that night.

Ellen H. Flagg.

NO SLAVE BENEATH THE FLAG.

No slave beneath that starry flag,
The emblem of the free!

No fettered hand shall wield the brand
That smites for Liberty!

No tramp of servile armies

Shall shame Columbia's shore,

For he who fights for Freedom's rights
Is free forever more!

No slaves beneath those glorious folds
That o'er our fathers flew,

When every breath was dark with death,
But every heart was true!

No serfs of earth's old empires

Knelt 'neath its shadow then; And they who now beneath it bow, Forevermore are men!

Go tell the ashes of the braves
Who at Port Hudson fell;
Go tell the dust whose holy trust
Stern Wagner guards so welt:

Go breathe it softly-slowly-
Wherever the patriot slave
For right has bled, and tell the dead
He fills a freeman's grave!

Go tell Kentucky's bondsmen true,
That he who fights is free!
And let the tale fill every gale

That floats o'er Tennessee!
Let all our mighty rivers

The story southward pour,
And every wave tell every slave
To be a slave no more!

Go tell the brave of every land,
Where e'er that flag has flown—
The tyrant's fear, the patriot's cheer,
Through every clime and zone—
That now no more forever

Its stripes are slavery scars;
No tear-drops stain its azure plain,
Nor dim its golden stars!

No slave beneath that grand old flag!
Forever let it fly!

With lightning rolled in every fold.

And flashing victory!

God's blessing breathe around it;

And when all strife is done,

May freedom's light, that knows no night,

Make every star a sun!

George Lansing Taylor.

CIVIL WAR.

"RIFLEMAN, shoot me a fancy shot

Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette; Ring me a ball in the glittering spot

That shines on his breast like an amulet!"

"Ah captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead, There's music around when my barrel's in tune!" Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped,

And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.

"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch. From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood; A button, a loop, or that luminous patch

That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!"

"O! captain, I staggered, and sunk on my track,
When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette,
For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back,
That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.

"But I snatched off the trinket-this locket of gold-
An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."

"Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket!-'tis she,

My brother's young bride-and the fallen dragoon Was her husband-Hush! soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree, We must bury him there, by the light of the moon!

"But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite;
War is a virtue-weakness a sin;

There's a lurking and loping around us to-night;
Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in !"

Once a Week.

THE FOUR ERAS.

THE lark has sung his carol in the sky;
The bees have hummed their noontide harmony;
Still in the vale the village bells ring round,
Still in Lewellyn-hall the jests resound:
For now the candle-cup is circling there,

Now glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,
And crowding, stop the cradle to admire

The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.

A few short years-and then these sounds shall hail
The day again, and gladness fill the vale;
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.

Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin;
The ale, now brewed, in floods of amber shine;