THE DYING SOLDIER.

DESTRUCTION OF WINTON VILLAGE, N. C.,
FEBRUARY 19Tн, '62.

THE grim-visaged cannon had ceased to roar,
And hushed was the musketry's rattle;
The bright-flashing sabre, all dripping with gore,
Lay in peace on the red field of battle;
The warm golden sunlight flooded the plain;
The night-wind was mournfully sighing,
And bore on its bosom, again and again,
The groans of the wounded and dying.

On blood-crimsoned turf, with bright eyes upturned
To the smoke-hidden heavens above him,
A dying youth lay, while his manly heart yearned
For his home and the friends who had loved him;
Yet firmly he clings to his sabre red,

Though sharp are the pains through him darting; And the glaze o'er his eyes, which shuts out the dead Tells that body and spirit are parting.

A smile wreathes the lips that once were so sad,
As he looks on the smoky cloud o'er him;
Life's shadowing twilight flits o'er his head,
And visions of home dance before him.
His father, with tottering step, he sees,
And hears the sweet voice of his mother;
And, fronting the door, the wide-spreading trees,
Where he played with his sister and brother.

Yet another vision now meets his gaze,
With joy it advances to meet him;
The loved playmate of his youthful days
Comes forth, with her parents, to greet him.
The blood-stained sabre now falls from his hand,
To his feet in triumph he started;

And then, with a groan, fell back to the sand,
While his spirit, to meet them, departed!

S. H. POTTER.

THE LAST MAN AT HIS GUN.

AT THE BATtle of fortT GRAIG, NEW MEXICO.

ALONE, amid his comrades slain,

Upon the crimson battle-field,

'Mid death and dire destruction's reignHe will not fly-he will not yield! But coolly sits, upon his gun,

Now silent in the battle's roar His duty nobly, bravely done

He falls-the last-one martyr more!

Will ever traitors perish thus,

Or stand before such a foe as he, With such brave men to fight for us, Base treason's doomed eternally!

Ah! hero brave! thy noble name

We'll breathe around our peaceful fires-
Teli children's children of thy fame,
When we are old and white-haired sires!

J. GORDON EMMONS.

MY GRANDFATHER'S SWORD.

CELEBRATION OF WASHINGTON'S BIRTH-DAY

FEBRUARY 22D, '62.

How I used to love, when a happy boy,
To roam through these old halls
In my father's house, and wondering gaze
At the portraits on the walls.

But there was one thing I loved more than all
Of the relics around me stored.

'Twas the rusty old weapon that hung on the wall, My grandfather's old heavy sword.

Cheerless and cold was this lonely hall,
Cheerless and dark as night,

And oft have I crept along the wall

And opened a shutter to let in light;
Then I'd climb on a chair, with cautious air,
Fearing I might be heard,

With trembling hand unclasp the band,
And take down my grandfather's sword.

With awe I would gaze and hold my breath,
As I drew from its scabbard the blade,
And think of the old man's fearful death,
And the grave where he was laid.

I looked on the weapon in fond delight;
I thought of the tales I adored,

How my grandsire fell on Bunker Hill's height,
Waving that blood-stained sword.

TOETICAL ILX-PICTURES

When I hung it up I'd steal away

To the green." where the school boys used to play, And tell the boys of our country's foes,

Who fell in the strife 'neath my grandsire's blows. How my heart throbs now while I think of home, And memory's tears all silently come

When I think of the hall with old trophies stored, I sigh when I gaze on my grandfather's sword

L. AUGUSTUS JONES.

THE SPECTRAL WARRIOR.

CAPTURE OF NASHVILLE, TENN.,
FEBRUARY 23d, '62.

A MAIDEN mused as the day grew dim,
And the stars encamped in the West;
The pine tree flourished its dusky limb,
As if beating time as the breeze's hymn,
Seemed chanting a soul to rest.

The wires were warm with the news of strife
On Virginia's stricken sod;

And she thought of one who had pledged his life,
Whose scarlet sash for his battle-knife,

She had girt with a prayer to God.
Like blasted figs on a sterile shore,
Life's flowers bestrewed her heart :

The Past unfolded a radiant store,

But the blossoms were sore that the Future bore,
And she saw its last depart.

Her soul was wrung into tears, and she wept;
Hope gilded her thoughts no more;

When midnight came at the lattice she slept,
And a calm o'er her soul as softly crept,
As the moonlight over the floor.

Did leaves rustle then! they're mute as the dew;
The moonlight fled from the floor,
As a phantom warrior, clad in blue,
A weird and a sombre shadow threw,
As he entered the closed door.
Like a fire that glows in a darkling cave,
Or cannon flame from a fort,
His eye from its sunken socket gave
Unearthly light-the badge of the grave,
With a mystic meaning fraught.
With a banner grasped in his bony hand,
And the scarlet sash she bound,

She saw her spectral lover stand,

With a mortal wound where the Southern brand,

His life-stream sought and found.

He waved his hand; with a sound as before,
He vanished like April's flake;

The moonlight slumbered again on the floor,
But the calm returned to her soul no more,
And she shrieked herself awake.

She knew the worst; and her eye was clear
When she stood at the village well,

And a wounded soldier she chanced to hear
Relate with many an honest tear,

How her Spartan lover fell.

The colors he bore through the fiery sleet,
Ere the foe was put to rout,

And planted it at the foeman's feet,
Where he smiling sank, and his dying heat

Was poured in a battle-shout.
Above to graves in the twilight dim,

Like a mourner sore opprest;
The pine tree tosses its dusky limb,
And is beating time as the breeze's hymn,
Is chanting two souls to rest.

CLARENCE F. BUHLER