THE DYING SOLDIER.

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May the sheen of thy rifles die out in the glade, With brother no longer 'gainst brother arrayed; May the swords of the children be sheathed to the hilt

On the plain where the blood of the martyrs was spilt ;

May the Star-Spangled Banner, bright gleaming of heaven,

Float over the hearts that no longer are riven.

Thou art travailing to-day, in anguish and woe, The breast that should shield is the breast of thy

foe;

While I gaze on thy hills, where naught should be

seen

But the low-waving lines of thy emerald green,
I have need to remember, all memories above,
That the God whom we worship chastiseth in love.

THE DYING SOLDIER.

EARY and worn to a skeleton form

WEA

He lay on a couch of pain,

And his wish at even, his prayer at morn,

Were to visit his home again.

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THE DYING SOLDIER.

He talked of his mother far away,

And he talked of his lonely wife,
When the fever frenzied his burning head
And loosened his hold of life.

He talked of his home, the fair free land,
The home of his childhood's play;

He talked of his babe, and the large tears fell
And rolled from his cheeks away.

We told him his feet might never again

Walk over his native sod,

But ere long they should tread the golden streets, At home in the city of God.

And we said though his eye should never behold The forms of his earth's deep love,

He should wait for them there, by the life river fair, In the garden of beauty above.

But he wept, and he talked of his burial lone

In a stranger's unnoticed bed,

That no rose by affection's hand would be trained To wave o'er his grave when dead.

We told him that God would mark the spot
Where all of his children lay,

THE DYING SOLDIER.

And not one of his loved ones be forgot

On the resurrection day.

But he sighed, and whispered

So many long weary years!

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"So long, so long,

And my lonely wife and little one

Alone in a vale of tears."

We told him the Word of God had gone forth,

In truth and holiness,

As the Friend of the widow's lonely life,

The Guide of the fatherless.

When death had stilled that loving heart,

Kind hands with gentle care

Had saved for her, that lonely wife,

One tress of his long, bright hair.

Then they wrapped the worn-out soldier's clothes Round the martyred hero's breast,

And in his rude, unvarnished bed,

Laid him sadly away to rest.

Not a hymn was sung, not a prayer was raised,
Not a word of counsel said,

But the hireling's rude, uncareful hands

Piled the damp mould o'er his head.

M.

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HEAD OF THE COLUMN.

HEAD OF THE COLUMN.

BY EDWARD WILLET.

SAT at the edge of the battle, Though the shell around me burst; And I watched the column charging, And felt that you were the first.

Through the smoke and the fire, the column
Pressed onward again and again,

Till it melted under the tempest
Of the terrible leaden rain.

Broken and shattered, the column
Slowly drew out from the fight,
And my heart sank down within me,
Sick at the sorrowful sight.

So few of that glorious column
So sadly came back from the field:
Alas! they had fought too bravely;
Oh! were it not better to yield?

But never the wife of a soldier

Should grieve for the life she has given ; She gave it, if God shall return it,

So much she is owing to Heaven.

HEAD OF THE COLUMN.

She gave it,

when battle shall claim it,

Not hers, but her country's the loss.
Ah! well, she may weep for her country,
And silently bear her cross.

I hoped, of the shells that were flying
And bursting around me in air,
Some merciful one would strike me,
At the edge of the battle there.

But back to the shattered column
In safety I picked my way,
Such pitying looks they gave me,
But none had a word to say.

They led up your horse; he was bloody,
With the blood of the noble and true :

From his reeking side I kissed it,—
It was all that was left me of you.

Oh, never the wife of a soldier

Should grieve for the life she has given !
She
gave it if battle shall claim it,
So much she has laid up in Heaven.

But the bullet that slew my darling
Is piercing my poor heart through.

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