Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches these swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere

Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

I hear e'en now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which through the ages that have gone before us,
In loud reverberations reach our own.

The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; The soldiers' revel in the midst of pillage;

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.

Were half the power that fills the earth with terror,
Were half the wealth bestow'd on camps and courts,
Giv'n to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals or forts.

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain.

Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,

I hear once more the voice of Christ say "Peace!"

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the immortals,

The holy melodies of love arise.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

VAINLY I WAIT FOR THEE.

CAPTURE OF THE STAR OF THE WEST.

APRIL 16TH, '61.

I AM waiting, sadly waiting,
'Neath the trysting tree-

Waiting for thy welcome footsteps,
And thy smile of love for me.
Evening shadows fast are falling,
Night comes on apace,

Vainly through the dusk I'm peering.
Thy dear form to trace.

Never more shall I behold thee,

Low in death thou'rt lain,

On the battle-field so gory,

For thy country slain.

From mine eyes the tears are falling—
Bitter tears of grief and pain,
But methinks thy sweet voice whispers,
"Cheer thee, love, we'll meet again.”

HELENE OSGOOD.

THE MARTYRED THREE.

THE MARCH TO THE CAPITOL.

OUR mother, Massachusetts,
Hath sons of valiant mould-
Bright-eyed and gentle-featured,
Strong-limbed and stalwart-souled!
Within her lap she holds them-
Her lap of fruitful soil;

And, bosomed on her fragrant hills,
They drink the milk of toil.

And so they wax to manliness,
By bread of freedom nurs'd;
And so they love all lands above,
Old Massachusetts first!

One day, through all the nation-
From blue Potomac's stream
To woods of far Aroostook,

There flash'd a lightning gleam :

In scrolls of fire electric

The battle-word went forth

Like burning brand from hand to hand,

Through all the loyal North:

"The Capitol's in danger!

So every soul rehears'd,

And pass'd the brand from hand to hand

Old Massachusetts first!

Then out from all the hill-paths,
And up from every wold,
The sturdy yeomen muster'd
Like minute-men of old:
From all the marts of merchants,
And all the fields of toil;
And left the iron at the forge,
The ploughshare in the soil!

And down to save the Capitol,
In gallant haste they burst-
From hill and glen, like minute-men,
And Massachusetts first!

From old Ticonderoga,

And Mohawk's storied gorge-
From Bunker Hill and Monmouth,
And ice-bound Valley Forge;

As bread and wine to strengthen souls,
Ye draw from sacred pyx,

So draw we from our battle-fields,

The strength of 'Seventy-six!

And then, to save the Capitol,

From treason's power accurst,

With war-like throes the States arose

Old Massachusetts first !

The Nineteenth Day of April!

O day remember well!

The greybeards and the schoolboys

Its hallow'd legends tell;

How four-score years and six have gone, Since Freedom's snow white bud,

New blossoming then from heroes' hearts, Grew red with priceless blood:

At Lexington and Concord

When Freedom's flower out-burst, With fragrance bland to fill the landOld Massachusetts first!

The Nineteenth Day of April!
How thrilled our loyal land,
When marched the Union soldiers
O'er Susquehanna's strand:

When Treason's steel was lifted,
By dark Patapsco's flood.
And Maryland's Magnolia white
Grew red with martyr's blood!
The old, old strife of freedom
With freedom's foes reversed
Alike the day, alike the fray-
Old Massachusetts first!

All silently, all manfully,

Beside the road we form'd: Around us gathering, wolf-like, The howling traitors swarm'd: To left and right still mustering, With swift and fierce attacks, They taunted us, and spat on us, And smote us at our backs!

But on we march'd, unfaltering,
Nor answer'd, while they curs'd,
With yells of hate, each loyal State-
Old Massachusetts first!
Before us, o'er the pavements,

They trailed the Union flag,

And flaunted in our faces

Secession's hateful rag.