Southern Poems of the War,

READING THE LIST.

Is there any news of the war?' she said; 'Only a list of the wounded and dead,' Was the man's reply,

Without lifting his eye

To the face of the woman standing by.

"Tis the very thing I want,' she said; Read me a list of the wounded and dead.'

He read the list 'twas a sad array

Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray;
In the very midst was a pause to tell
That his comrades asked, 'Who is he, pray?
y?'
'The only son of the Widow Gray,'

Was the proud reply

Of his Captain nigh.

What ails the woman standing near?
Her face has the ashen hue of fear!

Well, well, read on; is he wounded? quick!
O God! but my heart is sorrow sick!'
'Is he wounded?' 'No! he fell, they say,
Killed outright on that fatal day!'
But see, the woman has swooned away!

Sadly she opened her eyes to the light;
Slowly recalled the events of the fight;
Faintly she murmured, Killed outright!
It has cost me the life of my only son,
But the battle is fought and the victory won;
The will of the Lord, let it be done!'

God pity the cheerless Widow Gray,

And send from the halls of Eternal Day

The light of His peace to illumine her way!

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SOMEBODY'S DARLING.

(By Miss MARIE LACOSTE, of Savannah, Georgia.)

Into a ward of the whitewashed walls
Where the dead and the dying lay,
Wounded by bayonets, shells and balls,
Somebody's darling was borne one day.
Somebody's darling! so young and so brave,
Wearing still on his pale sweet face,
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow,
Pale are the lips of delicate mould—
Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from the beautiful, blue-veined face
Brush every wandering, silken thread,
Cross his hands as a sign of grace-
Somebody's darling is still and dead!

Kiss him once for somebody's sake;
Murmur a prayer, soft and low,
One bright curl from the cluster take—
They were somebody's pride, you know.
Somebody's hand hath rested there;

Was it a mother's soft and white?

And have the lips of a sister fair

Been baptised in those waves of light?

God knows best. He was somebody's love; Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above,

Night and morn on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay,

Somebody clung to his parting hand.

To Washington.

Somebody's watching and waiting for him,
Yearning to hold him again to her heart:
There he lies, with the blue eyes dim,

And smiling, childlike lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead,

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear,
Carve on the wooden slab at his head,

'Somebody's darling lies buried here!'

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The day is a long distance off when songs of the war will be heard in American drawing-rooms with as little political feeling being aroused by them as when a young lady in England sings Charlie is my darling,' or 'Bonnie Dundee.' There is, I believe, a similar collection of Northern Songs of the War, which I intended to have bought on my return to New York, but unfortunately forgot it in my hurry at leaving.

Jan. 1, 1867, Tuesday.

Yesterday being New Year's Eve, we transferred ourselves to Washington, for the purpose of presenting ourselves to the President at his grand levée this morning. Following our rule of always going to the largest hotel, we are at Willard's, where there is already a large assemblage of Members of Congress ready for the opening of the House on the 3rd. I have bought the Congressional Directory of the Second Session of the Thirty-ninth Congress of the U.S. of America.' There are great blanks in every

page; Alabama, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, Mississippi, North Carolina, South Carolina, Texas, and Virginia, having neither senator nor representative in the present Congress. There are no Southerners in Washington except those who are making interest for their pardons.

On New Year's Day in Washington it is the custom to call on all your friends: the more distinguished members of society stop at home and 'receive;' and the rest of the world, each with a list of his friends in his hand, pass the day in going from house to house, paying rounds of morning-calls.

We put our letters of introduction in our pocket, and sallied forth to see if we could find somebody to present us to the President. We found all our distinguished friends were engaged in receiving visits, and all our less distinguished friends occupied in paying them. Then it occurred to us that this was a free country, and that it was the misfortune of the President of the United States that anybody might call upon him, whether introduced or not. So we walked quietly up to the front-door of the White House, and joined the string of people going in. A military band was playing in the hall. We passed through two ante-rooms, and just inside the door of the third room we came unexpectedly upon two gentlemen in black frock-coats and white kid-gloves. The taller of them waved his hand in the direction of

The President's Reception.

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the other, and said, 'The President, Gentlemen.' The President shook each person by the hand, and said, 'Good morning, sir; I am happy to see you.' Behind him was a background of ladies, more black frock-coats, and a few blue uniforms; then we found ourselves propelled out at another door into the hall again, past the military band, and out at the front-door-a simple ceremony, leaving very few impressions on the mind, beyond the facts, that the President was in good health, that he was not a sort of man likely to let himself be bullied, and that considering the amount of hand-shaking he had gone through that morning, his white kid-gloves were still in very good order.

To the members of the Diplomatic Corps this total absence of ceremony is by no means agreeable. An ambassador or minister at a European court has a pleasant and dignified position; but in Washington it seems to be rather the opposite. The Americans have always prided themselves on keeping aloof from European politics, and on not belonging to the family of nations; one result of which is that they do not put themselves out of the way to make much of the representatives of foreign courts. They have no ceremonies of their own to which to invite the ceremonious; and looking on ministers as men, of course all men are equal.

But whatever minor griefs befell the Diplomatic