Our star-spangled flag shall not trail in the dust;
Live for me if you can, die for that if you must,
God make me a widow before I am wife,

If I prize not your honor as more than your life!”

Still further to try her, I took from its place
Her gift. The proud glow faded out of her face.
"Excuse me my dear, but your love's so divine,
It climbs quite beyond the discernment of mine.

"For your gift, many thanks! Tie it to your waist'! I have seen the same colors much more to my taste In a different shape." Oh, her scorn, her surprise! Oh, the lightnings that glowed in her beautiful eyes!

And after the lightnings flashed, torrents of rain, And her voice smote my heart silver-sharp with pain. "O traitor!" she cried, "may the Father above Cast you out from His peace as I do from my love;

"May the land you desert never yield you a grave,
Or heaven claim the soul of so craven a slave!
False to Freedom-" I caught the words from her lips,
And kissed the wet eyes into sudden eclipse.

"Nay, listen dear love, to my plea," I replied,
"And spare me the rest of your anger and pride.
May God deal by me, as in purpose and deed,
By my country I deal in this hour of her need,

"But the mouth that touched mine just a moment ago, These little soft hands that are colder than snow; These eyes, rayed like stars, my kisses have pressed, Are the red, white and blue in the shape Ilove best."

Oh! dearer than life is the badge that I wear,
With its star knit of gold from my lady-love's hair!
No traitor shall gather my tri-colored rose,

Except thro' my heart, the red soil where it grows.

God bless our dear country, and save her from spoil,
From the greedy home-yultures who blacken her soil;
In the name of these colors, all others above.
Of the lips, hands and eyes of the woman I love.

J. S. HUNT.

A BATTLE HYMN FOR MIDSUMMER.

FIGHT AT SPRINGFIELD, MO,

OCTOBER 25TH, '61.

KING of the sword and shield,
Throned on each battle field;
Hopeful and strong:

Look through the battle smoke,
Guide thou the battle stroke,

God who of yore hast broke

The red ranks of Wrong.

Deeds crown our prayers with might;
Soldiers, strong in His right;

Victory he leads:

War is His awful form,

Vengeance in our blood made warm,

'Gainst God in battle's storm

Men are but reeds.

Close up your silent ranks,

Ransomed nations crown with thanks
Real soldiers bold;

Here is the gleaming steel,

Here is the cannon's peal,

Foes reel from those who kneel;
Strife for life is old.

One thought for home and land,
For them in Thy right hand
Our lives are given :

May peace with laurels bind,
Lives, loves in blood now signed;
They who lose life shall find
The life of Heaven.

Charge with a line of fire!

Charge to the sounding lyre
Of battle's shock;

Hands red with blood are white

In Duty's holy light;

God is the patriot's might,
The martyr's Rock.

God of our father's fame,

Save sons by battle flamę

From Freedom's night;

One flag o'er Fatherland;
One realm from strand to strand;
One fame of Freedom's band,

God speed the right!

REV. N. N. CHAMBERLAIN.

THE VOLUNTEER'S RETURN.

AFTER THE BATTLE OF WOODBURY, KY.,

OCTOBER 29TH, '61.

SWEET home! Young father, wert thou here,
To look upon your latest born,
"Twould be the happiest of the years,
This fresh and smiling April morn.
Young mother! pale and wan thou art,
'Tis hard to suffer thus alone.

Thank God that hope yet fills thy heart,
That prayer can mingle with thy moan.

Well may thy mother cherish thee,

Sweet baby-boy, whose infant prattle
Shall please him when from duty free,
And perils of the camp and battle,
He seeks his quiet home again,

And, numbering o'er thy childish charms,
Forgets his former toil and pain,
Unheeding war or war's alarms!

Next June will surely see him here,
Forever free of camps and wars;

And will he be a jot less dear,

If worn, and maimed, and gashed with scars? Ah, no! though lopped and bruised his frame, Our tears of joy will blind our eyes,

If they but leave his heart the same,
They leave enough for us to prize.

EDWARD WILLIS.

OMNIBUS AND COUPE.

ATTACK ON MORGANTOWN, KY.
OCTOBER 31ST, '61.

We were school-fellows once, Madame!
In many a struggle we bore the palm:
Our hands were in girlish friendship knit,
Our hearts with unselfish lore were lit.

When we talked of the future we twain were one,
In a common channel our dreams would run,
Of Love as pure as the purest gold,

Of Friendship that never was bought nor sold,
Till we floated along on the stream of Time
Fast linked together as rhyme with rhyme.
But I ride in an omnibus down Broadway,
While you dash by in your grand coupe.

You married, I hear, a millionaire,

Your house is fine and your jewels are rare;
Misty with lace or rich with shawls,

You lounge through concerts or float through balls.
When men address you, they speak in tune;

To hold your fan is a precious boon;

And it seems as if Nature was half unkind

That it does not perfume the very wind
That blows about you, and softens down
To music the roar of the noisy town.
But I am not envious to see you gay,
And happy, and rich, in your grand coupe.