STO

TOP! for thy tread is on an empire's dust; An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below; Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?

Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before, thus let it be.

How that red rain hath made the harvest grow
And this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields, king making victory!

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered there
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined! No sleep till morn when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feetBut, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer. deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is it is-the cannon's opening roar!

-

Within a widened niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,

And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear:

And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood ale ne could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who would guess If evermore should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! they come!
they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose,
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers

These rocks may have life,

Lay me down in this hollow,
We are out of the strife.

By heavens! the foeman may track me in blood,
For this hole in my breast is outpouring a flood.

No! no surgeon for me; he can give me no aid;
The surgeon I want is pickaxe and spade.
What, Morris, a tear? Why, shame on ye, man!
I thought you a hero; but since you began
To whimper and cry like a girl in her teens,
By George! I don't know what the devil it means!

Well! well! I am rough; 'tis a very rough school,
This life of a trooper-but yet I'm no fool!
I know a brave man, and a friend from a foe;
And, boys, that you love me I certainly know;

But wasn't it grand
[sand!
When they came down the hill over sloughing and
But we stood-did we not?-like immovable rock,
Unheeding their balls and repelling their shock.
Did you mind the loud cry

When, as turning to fly,

Our men sprang upon them, determined to die? O, wasn't it grand!

God help the poor wretches that fell in that fight;
No time was there given for prayer or for flight;
They fell by the score, in the crash, hand to hand,
And they mingled their blood with the sloughing and
sand.

Huzza!

Great heavens! this bullet hole gapes like a grave;

A curse on the aim of the traitorous knave!

Is there never a one of ye knows how to pray, Or speak for a man as his life ebbs away?

There are pools of it, lakes of it, just over there,
And fixed faces all streaked, and crimson-soaked hair.
Did you think, when we came, you and I, out to-night
To search for our dead, you would be a fair sight?

You're his wife; you love him—yon think so; and I
Am only his mother; my boy shall not lie
In a ditch with the rest, while my arms can bear
His form to a grave that mine own may soon share
So, if your strength fails, best go sit by the hearth,
While his mother alone seeks his bed on the earth.

You will go! then no faintings! Give me the light,
And follow my footsteps-my heart will lead right,
Ah, God! what is here? a great heap of slain,
All mangled and gory!-what horrible pain
These beings have died in! Dear mothers, ye weep,
Ye weep, oh, ye weep o'er this terrible sleep'

More! more! Ah! I thought I could never more know

Grief, horror, or pity, for aught here below,

Since I stood in the porch and heard his chief tell
How brave was my son, how he gallantly fell.
Did they think I cared then to see officers stand
Before my great sorrow, each hat in each hand?

Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor fright,
That your red hands turn over toward this dim light
These dead men that stare so? Ah, if you had kept
Your senses this morning ere his comrades had left,
You had heard that his place was worst of them all—
Not 'mid the stragglers-where he fought he would fall.
There's the moon through the clouds: O Christ what
a scene!

Dost Thou from Thy heavens o'er such visions lean, And still call this cursed world a footstool of Thine?

Hark! a groan! there another-here in this line
Piled close on each other! Ah, here is the flag,
Torn, dripping with gore;-bah! they died for this
rag.

Here's the voice that we seek; poor soul, do not start;
We're women, not ghosts. What a gash o'er the heart!
Is there aught we can do? A message to give
To any beloved one? I swear, if I live,
To take it for sake of the words my boy said,
"Home," "mother," wife," ere he reeled down
'mong the dead.

What wild hopes flash

He's not here-and not here.
through
My thoughts, as, foot-deep I stand in this dread dew,
And cast up a prayer to the blue, quiet sky!

Was it you, girl, that shrieked? Ah! what face doth lie

Upturned toward me there, so rigid and white?

O God, my brain reels! 'Tis a dream. My old sight Is dimmed with these horrors. My son! oh, my son ! Would I had died for thee, my own, only one!

There, lift off your arms; let him come to the breast
Where first he was lulled, with my soul's hymn to rest.
Your heart never thrilled to your lover's fond kiss
As mine to his baby-touch; was it for this?

He was yours, too; he loved you? Yes, yes, you're right.

Forgive me, my daughter, I'm maddened to-night. Don't moan so, dear child; you're young, and your

years

May still hold fair hopes; but the old die of tears.
Yes, take him again;—ah, don't lay your face there ;
See the blood from his wound has stained your loose
hair.

Has she fainted?-her cheek Say a word to me-speak!

How quiet you are!
Is cold as his own.
Am I crazed? Is she dead? Has her heart broke first?
Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is worst.
I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone with these dead;
Those corpses are stirring; God help my poor head!
I'll sit by my children until the men come
To bury the others, and then we'll go home.
Why, the slain are all dancing! Dearest, don't move.
Keep away from my boy; he's guarded by love.
Lullaby lullaby; sleep, sweet darling, sleep!
God and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep!
-Anonymous.

WP from the South at break of day,

U bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,

The affrighted air with a shudder bore,

Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's dcor,
The terrible grumble and rumble, and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
and Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar;
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold,
As he thought of that stake in that fiery fray,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town

A good, broad highway leading down;

And there through the flush of the morning light,

A steed as black as the steeds of night,
Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight,
As if he knew the terrible need,

He stretched away with his utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away,

Still sprung from those hoofs, thundering south,
The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth;
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.
The heart of the steed, and the heart of the master