And where is the fire that lit each eye
As star after star rose to your gaze,
In that cluster bright, spread out in the sky,
And dazzled all earth with its mighty blaze?
Has it vanished, as does the light'ning's flash,
To be felt, anon, in the bolt's sharp crash?

For such is the end, if you but dare

To draw the first stone from the Arch of State, "Twill crumble and fall-a thing of airPrecedent, too oft, shapes human fate. Shall history's page your dishonor tell? And woe fill the land, as sin fills hell? ̧

Do you know that the eye of God is bent,

As that of the world, on this spot of dust, Watching each movement with gaze intent, To pronounce and hear the verdict just? Say, will you prove true to God and State? Oh! my loved country-what is thy fate?

J. HENRY HAYWARD.

"ALL'S WELL.""

FIRST UNION OFFENSIVE OPERATION AT SEWELL'S POINT. MAY 18TH, '61.

MIDNIGHT upon the placid stream,
All nature seems at rest;

The silver moonbeams lightly beam
Upon the harbor's breast.

But hark, from yonder ship a sound
Disturbs the silence reigning 'round;
It is the frigate's midnight bell,
And watch proclaiming " All's well!"

"All's well!"—the lonely watchman's cry
Succeeds the stroke of midnight bell;
The ship is safe-no foe is nigh!

The hour is peaceful-" All's well!"

"All's well!" Then rest in peace, brave crew, In port now safe at last;

The fearful scenes you've battled thro'

Are naught, for danger's past !

The noble ship secure doth ride
Upon the harbor's mirror'd tide,
Far from old ocean's restless swell.

Sleep on, brave crew, for "All's well!"

"All's well,”—the lonely watchman's cry
Succeeds the stroke of midnight bell;
The ship is safe-no foe is nigh!

The hour is peaceful-" All's well!"

"God of our Fathers," speed the day
When the fierce storm shall cease,
And bring our Ship of State, we pray,
Safe to the Bay of Peace.

Soon may we hear the watchman's voice
Proclaiming to the world, "Rejoice!"
Wide let the welcome tidings swell-
Freedom hath triumphed-" All's well!"
"All's well!"-the lonely watchman's cry
Succeeds the stroke of midnight bell;
The ship is safe-no foe is nigh!
The hour is peaceful" All's well!"

J. GORDON EMMONS.

"ONLY ONE."

UNION ADVANCE INTO ALEXANDRIA.

MAY 24TH, '61.

THE dark night is ended, the skirmish is done,
Of wounded there is none, our dead, only one,
Lies out 'neath the stars in mute grandeur alone,
Where the moonlight falls 'round him,
And the rustling leaves, like a spirit's low tone,
Are his requiem sounding.

No songs 'round the fire, no laughing word said;
There's a hush in the camp, the sentry's firm tread
Falls softened and low as it passes the dead,

In calm slumber lying,

With pure, holy light streaming o'er his young head, Death's shadows defying.

That head, which so proudly was lifted this morn
At the signal of danger-the note of alarm,

Now broken and bow'd'neath the weight of the storm That was over it sweeping.

The battle is ended-the foe are all gone,

This memorial leaving.

Only one on our side," a loss counted slight;
But I think, as I gaze on this pale brow to-night,
What kisses have pressed these lips, now so white,
What hearts wild and breaking,

Would give years of life to stand by my side,
This farewell taking.

I think somewhere 'neath those same starlit skies
There's a home that is dark for the light in these eyes;
And some sigh, mayhap, breath'd for him, while he lies
Here, so peacefully sleeping;

Never dreaming of home, or of love's tender ties,
For no glory wreath seeking.

Beyond tears, and prayers, and love's winning tone,
A deep voice has called him-he heard, and is gone,
Past sentries and guards, to that glorious Throne,
Far" over the river,"

Where the voices of battle and war are unknown, And peace reigns forever.

His low grave is made, and the muffled drums beat; We will bear him forth now, with slow, mournful feet, To the place of his rest, and then leave him to sleep With the sod for his pillow

It is only one grave, but, alas! it is deep,

And some life-path 'twill shadow.

FLETTA.

THE SQUADRON IS FORMING.

SKIRMISH AT FAIRFAX COURT HOUSE,

MAY 31ST, '61.

THE Squadron is forming, the war-bugles play,
To saddle brave comrades, stout hearts for a fray!
Our captain is mounted-strike spurs, and away!

No breeze shakes the blossoms, or tosses the grain; But the wind of our speed floats the galloper's mane, As he feels the bold rider's firm hand on the rein.

Lo! dim in the starlight their white tents appear!
Ride softly! ride slowly! the onset is near!
More slowly! more softly! the sentry may hear!

Now fall on the rebel-a tempest of flame!
Strike down the false banner whose triumph is shame!
Strike, strike for the true flag, for freedom and fame!

Hurrah! sheath your swords! the carnage is done,
All red with our valor, we welcome the sun,
Up, up with the stars! we have won! we have won!

But still on the field our brave comrade lies,
All wounded and bleeding—see now he dies!
While still for the "Union forever" he cries!

Take him up gently-for his work is done,
The debt he has paid let none of us shun!
For he hath both freedom and victory won!

ANONYMOUS.