A band of friends upon the field
Stood round a youthful form,

Who, when the war-cloud's thunder pealed,
Had perished in the storm.

Upon his forehead, on his hair,

The coming moonlight breaks,

And each dear brother standing there
A tender farewell takes.

But ere they laid him in his home
There came a comrade near,
And gave a token that had come
From her the dead held dear.
A moment's doubt upon them pressed,
Then one the letter takes,
And lays it low upon his breast-
"He'll see it when he wakes."

O thou who dost in sorrow wait,
Whose heart with anguish breaks,
Though thy dear message came too late,
"He'll see it when he wakes."

No more amid the fiery storm
Shall his strong arm be seen;
No more his young and manly form
Tread Mississippi's green;

And e'en thy tender words of love-
The words affection speaks-
Came all too late; but oh! thy love
"Will see them when he wakes."
No jars disturb his gentle rest,
No noise his slumber breaks,
But thy words sleep upon his breast-
"He'll see them when he wakes."

FRANK LEE.

A GEORGIA VOLUNTEER.

FAR up the lonely mountain-side
My wandering footsteps led;
The moss lay thick beneath my feet,
The pine sighed overhead.
The trace of a dismantled fort
Lay in the forest nave,

And in the shadow near my path

I saw a soldier's grave.

The bramble wrestled with the weed
Upon the lowly mound,

The simple headboard, rudely writ,
Had rotted to the ground;

I raised it with a reverent hand,
From dust its words to clear;
But time had blotted all but these:
"A Georgia Volunteer."

I saw the toad and scaly snake
From tangled covert start,

And hide themselves among the weeds
Above the dead man's heart;
But undisturbed, in sleep profound,
Unheeding, there he lay;

His coffin but the mountain soil,
His shroud, Confederate gray.

I heard the Shenandoah roll
Along the vale below,

I saw the Alleghanies rise

Toward the realms of snow.
The "Valley Campaign" rose to mind--
Its leader's name-and then

I knew the sleeper had been one
Of Stonewall Jackson's men.

Yet whence he came, what lip shall say-
Whose tongue will ever tell

What desolated hearths and hearts
Have been because he fell?

What sad-eyed maiden braids her hair-
Her hair which he held dear?

One lock of which, perchance, lies with
The Georgia Volunteer!

What mother, with long-watching eyes
And white lips cold and dumb,
Waits with appalling patience for

Her darling boy to come?

Her boy! whose mountain grave swells up

But one of many a scar

Cut on the face of our fair land

By gory-handed war.

What fights he fought, what wounds he wore, Are all unknown to fame ;

Remember, on his lonely grave

There is not even a name!

That he fought well and bravely too,
And held his country dear,

We know, else he had never been

A Georgia Volunteer.

He sleeps-what need to question now

If he were wrong or right?

He knows, e'er this, whose cause was just

In God the Father's sight.

He wields no warlike weapons now,

Returns no foeman's thrust;

Who but a coward would revile
An honest soldier's dust?

Roll, Shenandoah, proudly roll
Adown thy rocky glen;
Above thee lies the grave of one
Of Stonewall Jackson's men.

Beneath the cedar and the pine,

In solitude austere,

Unknown, unnamed, forgotten, lies
A Georgia Volunteer.

MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND.

BY THE POTOMAC.

THE soft new grass is creeping o'er the graves
By the Potomac ; and the crisp ground-flower
Lifts its blue cup to catch the passing shower;
The pine-cone ripens, and the long moss waves
Its tangled gonfalons above our braves.

Hark, what a burst of music from yon bower!—
The Southern nightingale that, hour by hour,
In its melodious summer madness raves.
Ah, with what delicate touches of her hand,

With what sweet voices, Nature seeks to screen
The awful Crime of this distracted land,—

Sets her birds singing, while she spreads her green
Mantle of velvet where the Murdered lie,

As if to hide the horror from God's eye.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

THE VOICES OF THE GUNS.

WITHIN a green and shadowy wood,
Circled with Spring, alone I stood:
The nook was peaceful, fair, and good.

The wild-plum blossoms lured the bees,
The birds sang madly in the trees,
Magnolia scents were on the breeze.

All else was silent; but the ear
Caught sounds of distant bugle clear,
And heard the bullets whistle near,-

When from the winding river's shore
The Rebel guns began to roar,
And ours to answer, thundering o'er;
And, echoed from the wooded hill,
Repeated and repeated still,

Through all my soul they seemed to thrill;

For, as their rattling storm awoke,
And loud and fast the discord broke,
In rude and trenchant words they spoke :

"We hate!" boomed fiercely o'er the tide; "We fear not!" from the other side;

We strike!" the Rebel guns replied.

Quick roared our answer: "We defend!"

"Our rights!" the battle-sounds contend;

The rights of all !" we answer send.

"We conquer !" rolled across the wave; "We persevere !" our answer gave;

"Our chivalry!" they wildly rave.

"Ours are the brave !"

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Be ours the free!" "Be ours the slave, the masters we!" "On us their blood no more shall be!"

As when some magic word is spoken
By which a wizard spell is broken,
There was a silence at that token.

The wild birds dared once more to sing,
I heard the pine bough's whispering,
And trickling of a silver spring.

Then, crashing forth with smoke and din,
Once more the rattling sounds begin;
Our iron lips roll forth: "We win!"