Two already were lying dead

Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done,

And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun,

And stealthily follow'd the foot-path damp,

Across the clover and through the wheat,
With resolute heart and purpose grim,
Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,
And the blind bat's flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white,
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom,
And now, when the cows came back at night,
The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm

That three were lying where two had lain, And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again.

The summer day grew cool and late:

He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he open'd the gate, He saw them coming, one by one.

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,

Shaking their horns in the evening wind;
Cropping the butter-cups out of the grass;-
But who was it following close behind?
Loosely swung in the idle air

The empty sleeve of army blue;
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,
Look'd out a face that the father knew.

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn,
And yield their dead unto life again;
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn
In golden glory at last may wane.

The great tears sprung to their meeting eyes,—
For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb;
And under the silent evening skies
Together they follow'd the cattle home.

BY THE APPLE-TREE.

Ir was not anger that changed him of late
It was not diffidence made him shy;
Yon branch that has blossom'd above the gate
Could guess the riddle—and so can I.

What does it mean when the bold eyes fall,
And the ready tongue at its merriest trips?

What potent influence holds in thrall
The eager heart and the burning lips?

Ah me! to falter before a girl

Whose shy lids never would let (Save for the lashes' wilful curl) The pansy-purple asleep below.

Nothing to frighten a man away—

you know

Only a cheek like a strawberry-bed;

Only a ringlet's gold astray,

And a mouth like a baby's, dewy red.

Ah, baby mouth! with your dimpled bloom,
If but yon blossomy apple-bough

Could whisper a secret learn'd in the gloom,
That deepens its blushes even now!

No need, for the secret at last is known
Yet so, I fancy, it might not be
Had he not met her, by chance, alone,
There in the lane, by the apple-tree.

ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

THE SPARROW AT SEA.*

AGAINST the baffling winds, with slow advance,
One drear December day,

Up the vex'd Channel, tow'rd the coast of France,
Our vessel urged her way.

Around the dim horizon's misty slopes
The storm its banners hung;
And, pulling bravely at the heavy ropes,
The dripping sailors sung.

A little land-bird, from its home-nest warm,
Bewilder'd, driven, and lost,

With wearied wings, came drifting on the storm,
From the far English coast.

Blown blindly onward with a headlong speed
It could not guide or check,
Seeking some shelter in its utter need,
It dropp'd upon the deck.

Forgetting all its dread of human foes,

Desiring only rest,

It folded its weak wings, and nestled close
And gladly to my breast.

Wherefore I said this little flickering life,

Which now all panting lies,

Shall yet forget its peril and its strife,
And soar in sunny skies.

To-morrow, gaining England's shore again,
Its wings shall find their rest;

And soon, among the leaves of some green lane,
Brood o'er a summer nest.

*See Note 28.

And when amid my future wanderings,
My far and devious guest,

I hear a warbling bird, whose carol rings
More sweetly than the rest,—

Then I shall say, with heart awake and warm,
And sudden sympathy,

"It is the bird I shelter'd in the storm,

"The life I saved at sea!"

But when the morning fell across the ship,
And storm and cloud were fled,

The golden beak no longer sought my lip,-)
The wearied bird was dead.

The bitter cold, the driving wind and rain,-
Were borne too many hours;

My pity came too late and all in vain,—

Sunshine on frozen flowers.

Thus many a heart which dwells in grief and tears,
Braving and suffering much,

Bears patiently the wrong and pain of years,

But breaks at love's first touch.

Cleave thy dull swathe of cloud! no longer waits the hour.

Exulting, rapturous flame!
Dispel the night.

I dare not breathe thy name,

I tremble at thy light,

Yet come, in fatal strength,-come in all-matchless might!

Burn, as the leaping fire,

A martyr's shroud;

Burn, like an Indian pyre,

With music fierce and loud;

Come, Power! Love calls thee,-come, with all the god endow'd!

Immortal life in death!

On these rapt eyes,

On this quick-failing breath,

In dread and glory rise!

The altar waits this torch, come, touch the sacrifice!

Come! not with gifts of life,
Not for my good:

My soul hath kept her strife

In fear and solitude:

More blest the inverted torch, the horror-curdled blood.

Better in light to die

Than silent live:

Rend from these lips one cry,

One death-born utterance give!

Then, clay in fire depart; then, soul! in heaven survive!