The field of strife, whose dews are blood, whose breezes War's hot breath,

Whose fruits are garner'd in the grave, whose husbandman is Death!

Without a murmur, he endured a service new and hard;

But, wearied with a toilsome march, it chanced one night, on guard,

He sank, exhausted, at his post, and the gray morning found
His prostrate form-a sentinel, asleep, upon the ground!

So, in the silence of the night, aweary, on the sod,
Sank the disciples, watching near the suffering Son of God;-
Yet, Jesus, with compassion moved, beheld their heavy eyes,
And, though betray'd to ruthless foes, forgiving, bade them rise!
But God is love,—and finite minds can faintly comprehend
How gentle Mercy, in His rule, may with stern Justice blend;
And this poor soldier, seized and bound, found none to justify,
While War's inexorable law decreed that he must die.

'Twas night. In a secluded room, with measured tread, and slow,

A statesman of commanding mien, paced gravely to and fro.
Oppress'd, he ponder'd on a land by civil discord rent;

On brothers arm'd in deadly strife:-it was the President!

The woes of thirty millions fill'd his burden'd heart with grief;
Embattled hosts, on land and sea, acknowledged him their chief;
And yet, amid the din of war, he heard the plaintive cry
Of that poor soldier, as he lay in prison, doom'd to die!

'Twas morning.-On a tented field, and through the heated haze, Flash'd back, from lines of burnish'd arms, the sun's effulgent

blaze;

While, from a sombre prison-house, seen slowly to emerge,
A sad procession, o'er the sward, moved to a muffled dirge.

And in the midst, with faltering step, and pale and anxious face,
In manacles, between two guards, a soldier had his place.

A youth-led out to die ;--and yet, it was not death, but shame, That smote his gallant heart with dread, and shook his manly frame!

Still on, before the marshall'd ranks, the train pursued its way
Up to the designated spot, whereon a coffin lay-

His coffin! And, with reeling brain, despairing—desolate-
He took his station by its side, abandon'd to his fate!

Then came across his wavering sight strange pictures in the air:

He saw his distant mountain home; he saw his mother there;

He saw his father bow'd with grief, through fast-declining years;
He saw a nameless grave; and then, the vision closed-in tears!

Yet, once again. In double file, advancing, then, he saw
Twelve comrades, sternly set apart to execute the law-

But saw no more:-his senses swam-deep darkness settled

round

And, shuddering, he awaited now the fatal volley's sound!

Then suddenly was heard the noise of steeds and wheels approach,

And, rolling through a cloud of dust, appear'd a stately coach.
On, past the guards, and through the field, its rapid course was

bent,

Till, halting, 'mid the lines was seen the nation's President!

He came to save that stricken soul, now waking from despair; And from a thousand voices rose a shout which rent the air! The pardon'd soldier understood the tones of jubilee,

And, bounding from his fetters, bless'd the hand that made him free!

'Twas Spring.-Within a verdant vale, where Warwick's crystal

tide

Reflected, o'er its peaceful breast, fair fields on either side-
Where birds and flowers combined to cheer a sylvan solitude-
Two threatening armies, face to face, in fierce defiance stood!

Two threatening armies! One invoked by injured Liberty-
Which bore above its patriot ranks the Symbol of the Free;
And one, a rebel horde, beneath a flaunting flag of bars,
A fragment, torn by traitorous hands, from Freedom's Stripes
and Stars!

A sudden shock which shook the earth, 'mid vapor dense and dun,

Proclaim'd, along the echoing hills, the conflict had begun; While shot and shell, athwart the stream with fiendish fury sped, To strew among the living lines the dying and the dead!

Then, louder than the roaring storm, peal'd forth the stern command,

"Charge! soldiers, charge!" and, at the word, with shouts, a fearless band,

Two hundred heroes from Vermont, rush'd onward, through the

flood,

And upward o'er the rising ground, they mark'd their way in blood!

The smitten foe before them fled, in terror, from his postWhile, unsustain'd, two hundred stood, to battle with a host! Then, turning, as the rallying ranks, with murderous fire, replied They bore the fallen o'er the field, and through the purple tide!

The fallen! And the first who fell in that unequal strife, Was he whom Mercy sped to save when Justice claim'd his life

The pardon'd soldier! And, while yet the conflict raged around— While yet his life-blood ebb'd away through every gaping

wound

While yet his voice grew tremulous, and death bedimm'd his

eye

He call'd his comrades to attest he had not fear'd to die!

And, in his last expiring breath, a prayer to heaven was sentThat God, with His unfailing grace, would bless our President!

SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.—By George H. Boker.

The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around.-Coleridge.

O, WHITHER sail you, Sir John Franklin?
Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay.

To know if between the land and the pole
I may find a broad sea-way.

I charge you back, Sir John Franklin,
As you would live and thrive;

For between the land and the frozen pole
No man may sail alive.

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John,
And spoke unto his men :-

Half England is wrong, if he is right;
Bear off to the westward then.

O, whither sail you, brave Englishman?
Cried the little Esquimaux.

Between the land and the polar star
My goodly vessels go.

Come down, if you would journey there,
The little Indian said;

And change your cloth for fur clothing,
Your vessel for a sled.

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John,
And the crew laughed with him too;
A sailor to change from ship to sled,
I ween, were something new.

All through the long, long polar day,
The vessels westward sped;

And wherever the sail of Sir John was blown,
The ice gave way and fled.

Gave way with many a hollow groan,

And with many a surly roar ;

But it murmured and threatened on every side,
And closed where he sailed before.

Ho! see ye not, my merry men,
The broad and open sea?
Bethink ye what the whaler said,
Think of the little Indian sled!
The crew laughed out in glee.

Sir John, Sir John, 'tis bitter cold,
The scud drives on the breeze,
The ice comes looming from the north,
The very sunbeams freeze.

Bright summer goes, dark winter comes-
We cannot rule the year;

But long ere summer's sun goes down,
On yonder sea we'll steer.

The dripping icebergs dipped and rose,
And floundered down the gale;

The ships were staid, the yards were manned,
And furled the useless sail.

The summer's gone, the winter's come,

We sail not on yonder sea;

Why sail we not, Sir John Franklin?
A silent man was he.

The summer goes, the winter comes-
We cannot rule the year:

I ween, we cannot rule the ways,
Sir John, wherein we'd steer.

The cruel ice came floating on,
And closed beneath the lee,

Till the thickening waters dashed no more;
'Twas ice around, behind, before-

My God! there is no sea!

What think you of the whaler now?
What think you of the Esquimaux?

A sled were better than a ship,
To cruise through ice and snow.

Down sank the baleful crimson sun,
The northern light came out,

And glared upon the ice-bound ships,

And shook its spears about.

The snow came down, storm breeding storm,

And on the decks was laid;

Till the weary sailor, sick at heart,

Sank down beside his spade.

Sir John, the night is black and long,
The hissing wind is bleak,

The hard, green ice is strong as death;
I prithee, Captain, speak!

The night is neither bright nor short,
The singing breeze is cold,
The ice is not so strong as hope-
The heart of man is bold!

What hope can scale this icy wall,
High o'er the main flag-staff?
Above the ridges the wolf and bear
Look down with a patient, settled stare,
Look down on us and laugh.

The summer went, the winter came-
We could not rule the year;
But summer will melt the ice again,
And open a path to the sunny main,
Whereon our ships shall steer.

The winter went, the summer went,
The winter came around;

But the hard, green ice was strong as death,
And the voice of hope sank to a breath,
Yet caught at every sound.

Hark! heard you not the noise of guns?
And there, and there again?
'Tis some uneasy iceberg's roar,

As he turns in the frozen main.

Hurra! hurra! the Esquimaux
Across the ice-fields steal:

God give them grace for their charity!
Ye pray for the silly seal.

Sir John, where are the English fields?
And where are the English trees?
And where are the little English flowers
That open in the breeze?

Be still, be still, my brave sailors!
You shall see the fields again,

And smell the scent of the opening flowers,
The grass and the waving grain.

Oh! when shall I see my orphan child?
My Mary waits for me.

Oh! when shall I see my old mother,
And pray at her trembling knee?

Be still, be still, my brave sailors,
Think not such thoughts again!
But a tear froze slowly on his cheek;
He thought of Lady Jane.