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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.

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 grandsires 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 à 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.

WE LOOKED AGAIN UPON HIS FACE.

CAPTURE OF FAYETTEVILLE, ARK.,

FEBRUARY 24тн, '62.

SAY is one's country dearer than one's husband?
I scarce can tell you even now,

Tho' livelong months the grave sod has been folded
Across my husband's marble brow.

I know it was a sunny day in August,

Though I scarce saw its brightness then, With a firm step and proud high bearing, He joined those files of noble men.

Who, loving their grand country better

Than life, or home, or aught else dear,
Went forward, in their hands their young life holding,
With sense of duty, such as conquers fear.
I sometimes thought that if in glorious battle
His name was written on the list of killed,
As 'twas for country, so no murmur should escape me,
No eyes drop tears, though ever so well filled.

But not his fate to die for country quickly,
With crimson life blood oozing from his breast,
But in the dreary wards of far-off hospital,

At Danville he at last found rest.

And when his father tried to get him a short furlough I thought that they would surely grant him this, He brought not him, but a closely fastened coffin, That held a soldier's form, but 'twas not his.

Slow, weary aays went on, then came a message;
"Come now, and you shall have your son ;"
The words once brought hope, but then I only waited-
I knew that his life-work was done.

We looked again upon his face, and calm and smiling
Was the look his features wore,

It was the peace from his bright soul reflected,
Amid the glories of the further shore.

My little boy upon my knee begins to babble now,
And asks me when his papa will come home,
And I can only weep, and sob, and turn away,
And cannot tell him he will never come.
And so I fold him closer to my heart, and sit
Within the lengthen'd shadow of that grave,
But I will struggle on thro' life alone content,
If lives like his can our lov'd country save.

C. H. HANNUM.

333

I WOULD SEND YOU A KISS.

BATTLE OF BIRD'S POINT, MO.,
FEBRUARY 28, '62.

I WOULD send you a kiss dear daughter,
As pure from a fond father's lips,
And as chaste as the drop of water,
That fresh from an icicle drips;

But kisses thus sent in a letter

Would lose all their sweetness for thee, And I know it would please thee far better To receive a few "greenbacks" from me: I therefore send you this nice little sonnet, Instead of the greenbacks to buy a new bonnet.

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