Nor let the reeking knife, That I have drawn against a brother's life, Be in my hand when Death Thunders along, and tramples me beneath His heavy squadron's heels, Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels.

From such a dying bed,

Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red,

And the bald eagle brings

The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings To sparkle in my sight,

O, never let my spirit take her flight!

I know that beauty's eye

Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly,
And brazen helmets dance,

And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance;
I know that bards have sung,
And people shouted till the welkin rung,
In honor of the brave

Who on the battle-field have found a grave;
I know that o'er their bones

Have grateful hands piled monumental stones.
Some of those piles I've seen :
The one at Lexington upon the green

Where the first blood was shed,

And to my country's independence led;
And others, on our shore,

The Battle Monument " at Baltimore,
And that on Bunker's Hill.

Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still;
Thy "tomb," Themistocles,

That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,
And which the waters kiss

That issue from the gulf of Salamis.

And thine, too, have I seen,

Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green,
That, like a natural knoll,

Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll,
Watched by some turbaned boy,

Upon the margin of the plain of Troy.

Such honors grace the bed,

I know, whereon the warrior lays his head,
And hears, as life ebbs out,

The conquered flying, and the conqueror's shout;
But as his eye grows dim,

What is a column or a mound to him?
What, to the parting soul,

The mellow note of bugles? What the roll
Of drums! No, let me die

Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly,
And the soft summer air,

As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair,
And from my forehead dries

The death-damp as it gathers, and the skies
Seem waiting to receive

My soul to their clear depths! Or let me leave

The world when round my bed
Wife, children, weeping friends are gathered,
And the calm voice of prayer

And holy hymning shall my soul prepare
To go and be at rest

With kindred spirits, - spirits who have blessed
The human brotherhood

By labors, cares, and counsels for their good.

JOHN PIERPONT.

MY AUTUMN WALK.

ON woodlands ruddy with autumn
The amber sunshine lies;

I look on the beauty round me,
And tears come into my eyes.

For the wind that sweeps the meadows Blows out of the far Southwest, Where our gallant men are fighting, And the gallant dead are at rest.

The golden-rod is leaning,

And the purple aster waves In a breeze from the land of battles, A breath from the land of graves.

Full fast the leaves are dropping

Before that wandering breath; As fast, on the field of battle, Our brethren fall in death.

Beautiful over my pathway

The forest spoils are shed; They are spotting the grassy hillocks With purple and gold and red.

Beautiful is the death-sleep
Of those who bravely fight
In their country's holy quarrel,
And perish for the Right.

But who shall comfort the living, The light of whose homes is gone : The bride that, early widowed,

Lives broken-hearted on;

The matron whose sons are lying
In graves on a distant shore;
The maiden, whose promised husband
Comes back from the war no more?

I look on the peaceful dwellings Whose windows glimmer in sight, With croft and garden and orchard That bask in the mellow light;

After hands shall sow the seed, After hands from hill and mead

Reap the harvests yellow.

Thus, with somewhat of the seer,
Must the moral pioneer

From the future borrow,

Clothe the waste with dreams of grain,
And, on midnight's sky of rain,
Paint the golden morrow!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

TUBAL CAIN.

OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might,
In the days when earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright,
The strokes of his hammer rung:

And he lifted high his brawny hand

On the iron glowing clear,

Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,
As he fashioned the sword and the spear.
And he sang: 66
Hurrah for my handiwork!

Hurrah for the spear and the sword!

Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,

For he shall be king and lord."

To Tubal Cain came many a one,

As he wrought by his roaring fire,

And each one prayed for a strong steel blade
As the crown of his desire :

And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud for glee,
And gave him gifts of pearl and gold,

And spoils of the forest free.

And they sang: "Hurrah for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire,
And hurrah for the metal true!"

But a sudden change came o'er his heart,
Ere the setting of the sun,

And Tubal Cain was filled with pain

For the evil he had done;

He saw that men, with rage and hate,

Made war upon their kind,

That the land was red with the blood they shed,

In their lust for carnage blind.

And he said: "Alas! that ever I made,

Or that skill of mine should plan,

The spear and the sword for men whose joy

Is to slay their fellow-man!"

And for many a day old Tubal Cain

Sat brooding o'er his woe; And his hand forbore to smite the ore, And his furnace smouldered low.