SHERIDAN'S RIDE.-THOS. BUCHANAN READ. Up from the South at break of day, And heavier still those billows of war But there is a road from Winchester town, A steed as black as the steeds of night Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering south, The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away! Under his spurring feet the road, AFTER THE WAR. And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire, He is snuffing the smoke of the battle fray, The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops. What was done? What to do? A glance told him both; He dashed down the line mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the leader compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray. By the flash of his eye and his red nostril's play, He seemed to the whole great army to say, "I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down, to save the day!" Hurrah! hurrah! for Sheridan ! Hurrah! hürrah! for horse and man! Be it said, in letters both bold and bright, "Here is the steed that saved the day, By carrying Sheridan into the fight From Winchester, twenty miles away!" AFTER THE WAR. "Ir is two years ago to-day, dearest mother, Since we gave up our only dear one, And I bade 'good-by' to a brother, And you know when our eyes were o'erflowing, 47 "How proudly they marched through the village, With the flag of their fathers before! The farmer came forth from his tillage, Than I was on that midsummer's day. "Oh! he never could know how I missed him, How proud we all shall be of him, When Willie comes home from the war!" "My child, you behold but the banners, There's a glimpse of the pall and the shroud, And a dirge in the jubilant story That bursts from the hearts of the crowd." Oh the visions of death that are sweeping O! daughters of true-hearted mothers! For the day you shall welcome your brothers— THE MUSIC GRINDERS. THE MUSIC GRINDERS.-Oliver WendELL HOLMES. THERE are three ways in which men take One's money from his purse, And very hard it is to tell Which of the three is worse; But all of them are bad enough You're riding out some pleasant day, And takes your horse's reins, Perhaps you're going out to dine,- You'll hear about the cannon-ball He tells you of his starving wife, Poor little, lovely innocents, All clamorous for bread, And so you kindly help to put You're sitting on your window-seat, You hear a sound that seems to wear As if a broken fife should strive To drown a cracked bassoon. And nearer, nearer still, the tide And something like a drum; You sit in speechless agony, Until your ear is numb. You think they are crusaders, sent And break the legs of Time. But hark! the air again is still, It cannot be,--it is,—it is,— No! Pay the dentist when he leaves And pay the owner of the bear, That stunned you with his paw, And buy the lobster that has had But if you are a portly man, Put on your fiercest frown, And talk about a constable To turn them out of town; Then close your sentence with an oath, And if you are a slender man, Not big enough for that, Because you are a flat, Go very quietly and drop A button in the hat! THE COMET.-OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. THE Comet! He is on his way, And singing as he flies; The whizzing planets shrink before The spectre of the skies; |