Not the raid of midnight terror, but the thought which

underlies ;

Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Christian's sacrifice.

Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the Northern rifle hear,

Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on the negro's

spear.

But let the free-winged angel Truth their guarded passes

scale,

To teach that right is more than might, and justice more than mail!

So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in array;

In vain her trampling squadrons knead the winter snow with clay.

She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she dares not harm the dove;

And every gate she bars to Hate shall open wide to

Love!

John Greenleaf Whittier.

Chickamauga, the River, Tenn.

A

BY CHICKAMAUGA RIVER.

GAIN the wandering breezes bring

The music of the sheaves;

Again the crickets chirp and sing

Among the golden leaves.

Twelve times the springs have oped the rills,

Twelve amber autumns sighed,

Since hung the war-cloud o'er the hills,
The year that Charlie died.

The springs return; the roses blow,
And croon the bird and bee,

And flutes the ring-dove's love-call low,
Along the Tennessee;

But one dear voice, one cherished tone,
Returns to me—ah, never!

For Charlie fills a grave unknown,
By Chickamauga River.

Kind Nature sets her blossoms there,
And fall the vernal rains;
But we may lay no garlands fair

Above his loved remains.

A white stone marks an empty grave
Our household graves beside,
And his dear name to it we gave
The year that Charlie died.

The winds of fall were breathing low,
The swallow left the eaves;
We heard the hollow bugles blow,
When fell the harvest sheaves.

And swift the mustering squadrons passed,
We thought of Charlie ever,

And swift the blue brigades were massed
By Chickamauga River.

Along the mountain spurs we saw
The wreaths of smoke ascend;
And, all the Sabbath day, in awe,

We watched the war cloud blend
With fall's cerulean sky, and dim
The wooded mountain side,
Oh, how our hearts then beat for him,
The year that Charlie died!

How Thomas thundered past when broke The wavering echelon!

How down the sky in flame and smoke
Low sunk the copper sun;

The still night came, and who were saved
And who were called to sever,
We could not tell; our banner waved
By Chickamauga River.

And some returned with happy feet,
But never at our door

The fair-haired boy we used to meet
Came back to greet us more.
But memory seems to hear the fall

Of steps at eventide,

And all the changing years recall
The year that Charlie died.

Yet such a gift of God as he
"Tis blessed to have cherished;

And they shall ever stainless be

Who 've nobly fought and perished.

Again I see the mountains blaze
In autumn's amber light;
Again I see in shimmering haze
The valleys long and bright.
Old Lookout Mountain towers afar
As when, in lordly pride,

It plumed its head with flags of war
The year that Charlie died.

On wooded Mission Ridge increase
The fruited fields of fall,
And Chattanooga sleeps in peace
Beneath her mountain wall.
O Country, free from sea to sea,
With union blest forever,
Not vainly heroes died for thee
By Chickamauga River!

Hezekiah Butterworth.

Columbus, Miss.

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

"THE Women of Columbus, Mississippi, have shown themselves impartial in their offerings made to the memory of the dead. They strewed flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the National soldiers." New York Tribune.

Y the flow of the inland river,

BY

Whence the fleets of iron have fled,

Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,

Asleep are the ranks of the dead;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;-

Under the one, the Blue;
Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet;
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Under the laurel, the Blue;

Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours

The desolate mourners go,

Lovingly laden with flowers

Alike for the friend and the foe;
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;