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Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
Think not of the rising sun,
For, at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveille.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

DRIVING HOME THE COWS.

OUT of the clover and blue-eyed grass He turned them into the river-lane; One after another he let them pass,

Then fastened the meadow bars again.

Under the willows, and over the hill,

He patiently followed their sober pace; The merry whistle for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face.

Only a boy and his father had said

He never could let his youngest go; 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 followed 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 opened the gate, He saw them coming one by one,

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,

Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups 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, Looked 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 sprang to their meeting eyes; For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb; And under the silent evening skies

Together they followed the cattle home.

KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER.*

CLOSE his eyes; his work is done!
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon or set of sun,

Hand of man or kiss of woman?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight,

Proved his truth by his endeavor;
Let him sleep in solemn night,
Sleep forever and forever.

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars,

Roll the drum and fire the volley!
What to him are all our wars?
What but death-bemocking folly?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

Leave him to God's watching eye;

Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by ;

God alone has power to aid him.
Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

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Somebody's darling! so young and so brave,
Wearing still on his pale, sweet face -
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave-
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;
Pale are the lips of delicate mould —

Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from the beautiful blue-veined face
Brush every wandering, silken thread;
Cross his hands as a sign of grace —
Somebody's darling is still and dead!

Kiss him once for Somebody's sake;

Murmur a prayer, soft and low; One bright curl from the cluster take

They were Somebody's pride, you know. Somebody's hand hath rested there;

Was it a mother's, soft and white? And have the lips of a sister fair

Been baptized in those waves of light?

God knows best. He was Somebody's love? Somebody's heart enshrined him here; Somebody wafted his name above,

Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand ; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay;

Somebody clung to his parting hand

Somebody's watching and waiting for him, Yearning to hold him again to her heart : There he lies with the blue eyes dim,

And smiling, child-like lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead,

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear, Carve on the wooden slab at his head, "Somebody's darling lies buried here!"

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Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! There is no holier spot of ground Than where defeated valor lies,

By mourning beauty crowned!

HENRY TIMROD.

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

[The women of Columbus, Mississippi, strewed flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and the National soldiers.]

By the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead; · Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the one, the Blue; Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory,

Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,

In the dusk of eternity meet; -
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Under the laurel, the Blue;

Under the willow, the Gray.

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ODE TO PEACE.

PEACE.

DAUGHTER of God! that sitt'st on high
Amid the dances of the sky,
And guidest with thy gentle sway
The planets on their tuneful way;

Sweet Peace! shall ne'er again
The smile of thy most holy face,
From thine ethereal dwelling-place,
Rejoice the wretched, weary race

Of discord-breathing men? Too long, O gladness-giving Queen! Thy tarrying in heaven has been ; Too long o'er this fair blooming world The flag of blood has been unfurled,

Polluting God's pure day;

Whilst, as each maddening people reels, War onward drives his scythed wheels, And at his horses' bloody heels

Shriek Murder and Dismay.

Oft have I wept to hear the cry
Of widow wailing bitterly;
To see the parent's silent tear

For children fallen beneath the spear;
And I have felt so sore

The sense of human guilt and woe,
That I, in Virtue's passioned glow,
Have cursed (my soul was wounded so)
The shape of man I bore!
Then come from thy serene abode,
Thou gladness-giving child of God!
And cease the world's ensanguined strife,
And reconcile my soul to life ;

For much I long to see,
Ere I shall to the grave descend,
Thy hand its blessed branch extend,
And to the world's remotest end
Wave Love and Harmony!

WILLIAM TENNANT.

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Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year;
A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front and flank and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown, yet faint thou not.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again, -
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among his worshippers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here!

Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

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NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.

"To fall on the battle-field fighting for my dear country, that would not be hard."- The Neighbors.

O No, no, let me lie

Not on a field of battle when I die!

Let not the iron tread

Of the mad war-horse crush my helmed head;

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