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And every maid, with simple art,
Wears on her breast, like her own heart,

A bud whose depths are all perfume;
While every garment's gentle stir
Is breathing rose and lavender.

There, veil'd in all the sweets-that are

Blown from the violet's purple bosom, The scent of lilacs from afar,

Touch'd with the sweet shrub's spicy blossom, Walk'd Esther; and the rustic ranks Stood on each side, like flowery banks, To let her pass,—a blooming aisle, Made brighter by her summer smile; On her father's arm she seem'd to be The last green bough of that haughty tree.

The pastor came; his snowy. locks

Hallow'd his brow of thought and care; And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks,

He led into the house of prayer.

Forgive the student Edgar there If his enchanted eyes would roam,

And if his thoughts soar'd not beyond,

And if his heart glow'd warmly fond
Beneath his hope's terrestrial dome.
To him the maiden seem'd to stand,

Veil'd in the glory of the morn,

At the bar of the heavenly bourn,
A guide to the golden holy land.

When came the service low response,
Hers seem'd an angel's answering tongue;
When with the singing choir she sung,
O’er all the rest her sweet notes rung,
As if a silver bell were swung
Mid bells of iron and of bronze.

At times, perchance,--oh, happy chance !

Their lifting eyes together met,

Like violet to violet,
Casting a dewy greeting glance.
For once be Love, young Love, forgiven,

That here, in a bewilder'd trance,

He brought the blossoms of romance, And waved them at the gates of heaven.

The pastor rose; the prayer was strong;
The psalm was warrior David's song;
The text, a few short words of might -
“The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"
He spoke of wrongs too long endured,
Of sacred rights to be secured ;
Then from his patriot tongue of flame
The startling words for Freedom came.
The stirring sentences he spake
Compell’d the heart to glow or quake,
And, rising on his theme’s broad wing,

And grasping in his nervous hand

The imaginary battle-brand,
In face of death he dared to fling
Defiance to a tyrant king.

Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed
In eloquence of attitude,
Rose, as it seem’d, a shoulder higher;
Then swept his kindling glance of fire
From startled pew to breathless choir;
When suddenly his mantle wide
His hands impatient flung aside,
And, lo! he met their wondering eyes
Complete in all a warrior's guise.

A moment there was awful pause,-
When Berkley cried, “Cease, traitor! cease !

God's temple is the house of peace!"

The other shouted, “Nay, not so,
When God is with our righteous cause;
His holiest places then are ours,
His temples are our forts and towers

That frown upon the tyrant foe;
In this, the dawn of Freedom's day,
There is a time to fight and pray!”

And now before the


The warrior priest had order'd so
The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar
Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er,

Its long reverberating blow,
So loud and clear, it seem'd the ear
Of dusty death must wake and hear.
And there the startling drum and fife
Fired the living with fiercer life;
While overhead, with wild increase,
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,

The great bell swung as never before
It seem'd as it would never cease;

word its ardor flung From off its jubilant iron tongue

Was, “War! war! war!”

And every

“Who dares ?”—this was the patriot's cry,

As striding from the desk he came,

“Come out with me, in Freedom's name, For her to live, for her to die?” A hundred hands flung up reply, A hundred voices answer’d, “I!”

Before Vicksburg.

(May 19, 1863.)

THE President has recently appointed to the Naval School at Newport a little drummer-boy of the 55th Illinois Volunteers, whose case was brought before him by MajorGeneral W. T. Sherman in the following letter. Truly, the letter does as much honor to the distinguished majorgeneral, who could pause in the midst of the duties of a great campaign to pay such tribute to a drummer-boy, as it does to the little hero whom it celebrates :


CAMP ON BIG BLACK RIVER, August 8, 1863. “Hon. E. M. STANTON, Secretary of War :

“Sir:-I take the liberty of asking through you that something be done for a lad named Orion P. Howe, of Waukegan, Illinois, who belongs to the 55th Illinois, but at present at home wounded. I think he is too young for West Point, but would be the very thing for a midshipman.

“When the assault at Vicksburg was at its height, on the 19th of May, and I was in front near the road, which formed my line of attack, this young lad came up to me, wounded and bleeding, with a good, healthy boy's cry, ‘General Sherman, send some cartridges to Colonel Malmborg: the men are nearly all out.' 'What is the matter, my boy?' They shot me in the leg, sir ; but I can go to the hospital. Send the cartridges right away.' Even where we stood the shot fell thick, and I told him to go to the rear at once, I would attend to the cartridges ; and off he limped. Just before he disappeared on the hill, he turned, and called, as loud as he could, ‘Calibre 54.' I have not seen the lad since, and his colonel (Malmborg), on

inquiry, gives me the address as above, and says he is a bright, intelligent boy, with a fair preliminary education.

“What arrested my attention then was—and what renewed my memory of the fact now is—that one so young, carrying a musket-ball through his leg, should have found his way to me on that fatal spot, and delivered his message, not forgetting the very important part, even, of the calibre of his musket,—54,which, you know, is an unusual one.

“I'll warrant that the boy has in him the elements of a man, and I commend him to the Government as one worthy the fostering care of some one of its national institutions. “I am, with respect, your obedient servant,

“W.T. SHERMAN, Major-General Commanding."

WHILE Sherman stood beneath the hottest fire

That from the lines of Vicksburg gleam’d,
And bomb-shells tumbled in their smoky gyre,
And grape-shot hiss’d, and case-shot scream'd,

Back from the front there came,

Weeping and sorely lame,
The merest child, the youngest face,

Man ever saw in such a fearful place.
Stilling his tears, he limp'd his chief to meet;

But, when he paused and tottering stood,
Around the circle of his little feet
There spread a pool of bright young blood.

Shock'd at his doleful case,

Sherman cried, “Halt! front face!
Who are you? speak, my gallant boy
“A drummer, sir,-Fifty-fifth Illinois."

“Are you not hit?” “That's nothing. Only send

Some cartridges. Our men are out, And the foe press us.” “But, my little friend" “Don't mind me! Did you hear that shout?

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