His pain was sorry to see, Yet there on his poor sick-bed, "She's coming in spite of me! Courage and wait," cried he, "Freedom's ahead!" A little before he died, Of the lords of the Parliament, And now Tom Dunstan's cold The shop feels duller; Scarce a story is told; Red republican color! But we see a figure gray, And we hear a voice of death, And the tallow burns all day, And we stitch and stitch away, In the thick smoke of our breath; Ay, here in the dark sit we, While wearily, wearily, We hear him call from the dead: "She's coming, she's coming," says he, How long, O Lord, how long O Lord, ere hope be fled; ROBERT BUCHANAN. THE OUR FALLEN HEROES. HE distinction of our volunteer army over all other armies of all times was its intelligence. Behind every musket was a thinking man. On the march, around the camp fire, in the hospital and the prison, and in letters to friends at home, these men discussed the issues at stake and the results that would follow defeat or victory with as much statesmanship and prophetic foresight as their representatives in Congress. Of the million volunteer soldiers, thousands were fitted by culture, ability, and character to be Presidents of the United States. Latour d'Auvergne was a grenadier of Napoleon's Old Guard. Bravest of the brave on every battle-field, he was tendered for distinguished services a sword bearing this inscription, "To the first grenadier of France;" but he refused it, saying, "Among us soldiers there is neither first nor last." Constantly declining promotion, and ever winning fresh laurels, he fell fighting gloriously for his coun try, and an imperial decree gave him a distinction never enjoyed by the proudest marshal of the empire. His name continued on the roll of his company, and when it was called the oldest sergeant answered, "Died on the field of honor." And this year and the next, and for the next decade, and centuries after, on the anniversary of this Decoration Day, when the roll-call in every churchyard and village cemetery of the men who died in the conflict is read, the answer of a grateful people will be, “Died upon the field of honor." There is an old epitaph in an English churchyard which quaintly says that "he who saves, loses; he who spends, saves; and he who gives away, takes it with him." These men gave away their lives, and took with them immortal glory and the gratitude of endless generations. They may repose in unknown graves south of the Potomac, or sleep beneath the sea, and yet theirs is a deathless fame. Poetry and eloquence will embalm their memories, and keep ever bright the recollection of their heroic deeds. "They never fail who die In a great cause. The block soak their gore; may Their heads may sodden in the sun, their limbs But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts The world at last to freedom." CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW. WH WHY THEY TWINKLE. Permission of "The Outlook," New York. HEN Eve had led her lord away, And Cain had killed his brother, The stars and flowers, the poets say, Agreed with one another To cheat the cunning tempter's art A million sleepless lids, they say, On hill and prairie, field and lawn, Their dewy eyes upturning, The flowers still watch from reddening dawn Till western skies are burning. Alas! each hour of daylight tells A tale of shame so crushing, That some turn white as sea-bleached shells, And some are always blushing. But when the patient stars look down On all their light discovers The traitor's smile, the murderer's frown, They try to shut their saddening eyes, And in the vain endeavor We see them twinkling in the skies, And so they wink forever. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. A TRIBUTE TO MOTHERHOOD. (From "The Princess.") ALONE, from earlier than I know, Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the world, I loved the woman; he, that doth not, lives Or pines in sad experience worse than death, TENNYSON. |