Into God's land. A golden car

And milk-white horses she is there! So sweet-I dream - I float away I cannot cut the cane to-day!

A PROPHECY

(FROM "LINCOLN'S GRAVE")

OLD soldiers true, ah, them all men can

trust,

Who fought, with conscience clear, on either side;

Who bearded Death and thought their cause was just;

Their stainless honor cannot be denied;
All patriots they beyond the farthest doubt;
Ring it and sing it up and down the land,
And let no voice dare answer it with sneers,
Or shut its meaning out;

Ring it and sing it, we go hand in hand,
Old infantry, old cavalry, old cannoneers.

And if Virginia's vales shall ring again
To battle-yell of Moseby or Mahone,
If Wilder's wild brigade or Morgan's men
Once more wheel into line; or all alone
A Sheridan shall ride, a Cleburne fall,
There will not be two flags above them fly-
ing,

But both in one, welded in that pure flame Upflaring in us all,

When kindred unto kindred, loudly crying,

Rally and cheer in freedom's holy name!

POE'S COTTAGE AT FORDHAM

HERE lived the soul enchanted
By melody of song;

Here dwelt the spirit haunted
By a demoniac throng;
Here sang the lips elated;

Here grief and death were sated;
Here loved and here unmated

Was he, so frail, so strong.

Here wintry winds and cheerless
The dying firelight blew,
While he whose song was peerless
Dreamed the drear midnight through,
And from dull embers chilling
Crept shadows darkly filling
The silent place, and thrilling

His fancy as they grew.

Here, with brow bared to heaven,
In starry night he stood,
With the lost star of seven
Feeling sad brotherhood.
Here in the sobbing showers
Of dark autumnal hours
He heard suspected powers
Shriek through the stormy wood.
From visions of Apollo

And of Astarte's bliss,

He gazed into the hollow

And hopeless vale of Dis; And though earth were surrounded By heaven, it still was mounded With graves. His soul had sounded The dolorous abyss.

Proud, mad, but not defiant,

He touched at heaven and hell.

WHEN wintry days are dark and drear
And all the forest ways grow still,
When gray snow-laden clouds appear
Along the bleak horizon hill,
When cattle all are snugly penned

And sheep go huddling close together, When steady streams of smoke ascend From farm-house chimneys, in such weather

Give me old Carolina's own,

A great log house, a great hearthstone,

A cheering pipe of cob or briar,

And a red, leaping light'ood fire.

When dreary day draws to a close

And all the silent land is dark, When Boreas down the chimney blows

And sparks fly from the crackling bark,
When limbs are bent with snow or sleet
And owls hoot from the hollow tree,
With hounds asleep about your feet,
Then is the time for reverie.

Give me old Carolina's own,
A hospitable wide hearthstone,
A cheering pipe of cob or briar,
And a red, rousing light'ood fire.