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

Under the roses the blue;
Under the lilies the gray.

So with an equal splendor
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all;
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment-day'Broidered with gold the blue;

Mellowed with gold the gray.

So when the summer calleth

On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day
Wet with the rain the blue;
Wet with the rain the gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done;
In the storm of the years that are fading
No braver battle was won ;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day —
Under the blossoms the blue;
Under the garlands the gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever

When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment-day-
Love and tears for the blue;

Tears and love for the gray.

THE EVE OF SAINT BARTHOLOMEW.

WALTER THORNBURY.

'Tis the wind that's groaning

Down the corridor,
Like the roused sea moaning

On a storm-beat shore.
Ha! the torch is flaring
In the court below!
Hark! I hear a footstep:
Is it friend or foe?

Wild the wind is surging
Down the avenue;
Trees in fear are struggling,
As if they, too, knew
All that's wrought in Paris
On this ghastly night.
Saviour, God in Heaven,
Lend the morning light!

Marie, hear the screech-owl
From the distant wood,
Screaming out her warnings
To her wistful brood!

Yes, again that glimmer

Far across the down,

That way there is danger!

There lies Paris town!

From the murderer's blow, Henri, let our word be,

"Are you friend or foe?"

Roll the powder barrel
Near the petronel;
See the wadding ready

And the ball fit well!
Guise's men are cruel

As the Medici;

How the moaning night-wind

Stirs the tapestry!

No; 'tis but my dreaming,

In the mirror look! Cabinet and prie-dieu,

Pictured wall and book! Nothing more, my Marie?

Yet there seem to rise

Bleeding, writhing faces,
With beseeching eyes.

Save our dear ones, Paris!
Huguenots, be brave!

There is One above us

Who has power to save.

Marie, clasp me closer!

You are faint with fear.
Marie, dear, remember
Always God is near!

Though a flood of torches
Blaze at every door,

Though the murderer's foot-tramp
Shake this very floor-

Calmly trusting Heaven

I will bide the blow.

Marie, courage! Ah, that hand! "Are you friend or foe?"