MISSING. Still a hope to cheer her! Safe, triumphant, he may come, With the victor army shouting,

With the clamor of the druin!

So, through all the days of autumn-
In the eve and in the morn-
She will hear his quickening footstep
In the rustling of the corn;

Or, she will hush her household,
While her heart goes leaping high,
Thinking that she hears him whistling
In the pathway through the rye.

Far away through all the autumn, In a lonely, lonely glade,

In the dreary desolation

That the battle-storm has made

With the rust upon his musket

In the eve and in the mornIn the rank gloom of the fern leaves Lies her noble-browed first-born.

"AT EVENING TIME IT SHALL BE LIGHT."

BY "C. F."

Our nation's sun was clouded o'er,
When erst he rose at morn;

But soon those beams were hid no more,
Afar the clouds were borne.
We for a while enjoyed his rays
In all their noon-tide power,
Now once again is hid that blaze,
In this our darkest hour.

But freedom's sky shall yet be bright,
"At evening time it shall be light."

The sun of Liberty shall ne'er

In clouds and darkness set;

Her sons are brave-they know no fear-
And God is with us yet.

We know, whatever may betide,
Be it for good or ill,

It is in mercy He doth chide

His arm is pow'rful still.

Then strike! for God and for the Right, "At evening time it shall be light."

POETRY BY GEN. LANDER.

The following stanzas were written by Brig.-Gen. Lander, on hearing that the Confederate troops had said that "Fewer of the Massachusetts officers would have been killed if they had not been too proud to surrender." We trust that the suggestion in the last stanza will be promptly met, and the Twentieth Massachusetts be at once recruited to its full complement.

"OURS."

Aye, deem us proud! for we are more
Than proud of all our mighty dead;
Proud of the bleak and rock-bound shore
A crowned oppressor cannot tread.

Proud of each rock, and wood, and glen,
Of every river, lake, and plain;
Proud of the calm and earnest men

Who claim the right and will to reign.

Proud of the men who gave us birth,

Who battled with the stormy wave, To sweep the red man from the earth, And build their homes upon his grave.

Proud of the holy summer morn,

They traced in blood upon its sod; The rights of freemen yet unborn,

Proud of their language and their God.

Proud, that beneath our proudest dome,

And round the cottage-cradled hearth, There is a welcome and a home

For every stricken race on earth.

Proud that yon slowly sinking sun
Saw drowning lips grow white in prayer,
O'er such brief acts of duty done

As honor gathers from despair.

Pride 'tis our watchword, "Clear the boats!" "Holmes, Putnam, Bartlett, Pierson-here!" And while this crazy wherry floats,

"Let's save our wounded!" cries Revere.

Old State-some souls are rudely sped-
This record for thy Twentieth corps,
Imprisoned, wounded, dying, dead,
It only asks, "Has Sparta more?"

-Boston Post, Nov. 23.

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR.

Deeds

There are bright spots in the darkness of war. of mercy by an enemy shed lustre on our common humanity. They have been commemorated in the heroic song of Homer, and have been eagerly caught and honored in every age by the human heart. They bid us hope, too, that the present contest grows, in part, out of mutual mis apprehension of the purposes and spirit of the two sections of the country arrayed against each other.

The following lines were written by a lady of Stockbridge, and commemorate an incident very touching and beautiful, which rests upon the best authority, and which ought to be known.

Colonel Mulligan refused his parole at Lexington, and his wife resolved to share his captivity. Accordingly she left her infant, fourteen months old, in the care of one of the strongest secessionist women in the town. That woman assumed the charge of the little child, and dressed it in the captured American flag.

The fight had ceased! The cannon's roar

Was silent on Missouri's shore;

The leader and his band so brave

Had turned from walls they could not save