long been raging-" the abomination of desolation standing where it ought not." But before all and above all other associations and memories-whether of glorious men or glorious deeds, or glorious places—its voice is ever of Union and Liberty, of the Constitution and the Laws.

The Song of the Camp.

"Give us a song !" the soldiers cried,
The outer trenches guarding,
When the heated guns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay, grim and threatening, under;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said:
"We storm the forts to-morrow;

Sing while we may, another day

Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon:

Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory:
Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang "Annie Lawrie."

Voice after voice caught up the song,

Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,―

Their battle-eve confession.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters,

With scream of shot, and burst of shell,
And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
For a singer, dumb and gory;
And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of" Annie Lawrie."

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing :
The bravest are the tenderest,—
The loving are the daring.

People Will Talk.

We may go through the world, but it will be slow,
If we listen to all that is said as we go.

We will be worried and fretted and kept in a stew;
Too meddlesome tongues must have something to do.

For people will talk, you know, people will talk;
Oh, yes, they must talk, you know.

If quiet and modest, you'll have it presumed
Your humble position is only assumed-

You're a wolf in sheep's clothing, or else you're a fool;
But don't get excited, keep perfectly cool.

For people will talk, etc.

If generous and noble, they'll vent out their spleen— You'll hear some loud hints that you're selfish and mean; If upright and honest and fair as the day,

They'll call you a rogue in a sly, sneaking way.
For people will talk, etc.

And then if you show the least boldness of heart,
Or slight inclination to take your own part,
They'll call you an upstart, conceited and vain;
But keep straight ahead, and don't stop to complain.
For people will talk, etc.

If threadbare your coat, and old-fashioned your hat,
Some one of course will take notice of that,
And hint rather strong that you can't pay your way,
But don't get excited, whatever you say.

If

For people will talk, etc.

you dress in the fashion, don't think to escape, For they will criticise then in a different shape;

You're ahead of your means, or your tailor's unpaid; But mind your own business, there's nought to be made. For people will talk, etc.

They'll talk fine before you; but then at your back,

Of venom and slander there's never a lack;

How kind and polite in all that they say,

But bitter as gall when you are away.
For people will talk, etc.

The best way to do is to do as you please,

For your mind (if you have one) will then be at ease;

Of course you will meet with all sorts of abuse,

But don't think to stop them, it isn't any use,

For people will talk, you know, people will talk,
O, yes, they must talk, you know.

Somebody's Darling.

Into a ward of the whitewashed walls,

Where the dead and dying lay,

Wounded by bayonets, shells and balls, Somebody's darling was borne one day. Somebody's darling, so young and so brave, Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face, Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, The lingering light of his boyhood grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;
Pale are the lips, of delicate mold—
Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow,
Brush all the wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now,
Somebody's darling is stiff and cold.

Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer, soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates 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 the waves of light?

God knows best! He was somebody's love, Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above,

Night and noon 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 waiting and watching for him, Yearning to hold him again to their heart, And there he lies, with his blue eyes dim,

And the 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 slumbers here."

War Lyrics of the South.

Zenobia's Ambition

I am charged with pride and ambition. The charge is true, and I glory in its truth. Who ever achieved any thing great in letters, arts or arms, who was not ambitious? Cæsar was not more ambitious than Cicero. It was but in another way. All greatness is born of ambition. Let the ambition be a noble one, and who shall blame it? I confess I did once aspire to be queen, not only of Palmyra, but of the East. That I am. I now aspire to remain so. Is it not an honorable ambition? Does it not become a descendant of the Ptolemies and of Cleopatra ? I am applauded by you all for what I have already done. You would not it should have been less.

But why pause here? Is so much ambition praiseworthy, and more criminal? Is it fixed in nature that the limits of this empire should be Egypt on the one hand, the Hellespont and the Euxine on the other? Were not Suez and Armenia more natural limits? Or hath empire no natural limit, but is broad as the genius that can devise, and the power that can win? Rome has the West. Let Palmyra possess the East. Not that nature prescribes this and no more. The gods prospering, and I swear not that the Mediterranean shall hem me in upon the west, or Persia on the east. Longinus is right-I would that the world were mine. I feel, within, the will and the power to bless it were it so.

Are not my people happy? 1ock upon the past and the present, upon my nearer and remoter subjects, and ask nor fear the answer. Whom have I wronged?—what province have I oppressed?—what city pillaged?-what region drained with taxes?—whose life have I unjustly taken, or estates coveted or robbed ?-whose honor have I wantonly assailed?—whose rights, though of the weakest and poorest, have I trenched upon ?-I dwell, where I would ever dwell, in the hearts of my people. It is written in your faces, that