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;

And I know that, when our couriers
With news of victory come,
They will bring a bitter message
Of hopeless grief to some.

Again I turn to the woodlands,
And shudder as I see

The mock-grape's blood-red banner
Hung out on the cedar-tree;

And I think of days of slaughter,

And the night-sky red with flames,
On the Chattahoochee's meadows,
And the wasted banks of the James.

Oh, for the fresh spring-season,
When the groves are in their prime;
And far away in the future

Is the frosty autumn-time!

Oh, for that better season,

When the pride of the foe shall yield,
And the hosts of God and Freedom

March back from the well-won field;

And the matron shall clasp her first-born
With tears of joy and pride;

And the scarred and war-worn lover
Shall claim his promised bride!

The leaves are swept from the branches;
But the living buds are there,

With folded flower and foliage,

To sprout in a kinder air.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

HYMN OF THE MOTHERS OF OUR VOL
UNTEERS.

HOME calls each loved familiar name
With precious memories stored :
Deal gently, Lord! 'Twas not for fame
Our children took the sword.

We never thought, when each young face
First softly touched our own,

And little hands with sweet embrace
About our necks were thrown,

That our own veins were nursing then
The holy cause of Right,

And that from our own bosoms men
Would spring to Freedom's fight.

We deem not now the offering vain,
Our dearest though we give;
Nor do we ask release from pain,
If but the Nation live.

Still, sometimes as alone we kneel
Where once the cradle stood,

So much comes back-'tis hard to feel
That all our grief is good.

The rosy cheeks so round and fair,
The pattering little feet,

The laughing eyes and silken hair
Of those whose touch was sweet,

Rise up amid the glare and din
Of battle's fiery tide,

And flit past prison bars, within
Which love is crucified!

We know we bade them go, when stirred

The land from sea to sea,

For 'twas Thy voice, O Christ, they heard
Proclaiming liberty.

But, oh, this travail long and sore,
Watching their woeful way,
And never able to do more

Than serve at home and pray.

It seems as if the mother's hand
Could soothe their sufferings best,
And that the mother ought to stand
By children laid at rest,

Forgive, O God, our doubts and fears
While Thy great work goes on;
We do rejoice amid our tears,

And pray, “ Thy will be done.”

Thy will-good will-its message now
Of promised peace grows strong,
And, flashing on War's awful brow,
Proclaims the doom of Wrong.

It is enough. Out from the gloom
Rises a nation free.

Still, at the cross and by the tomb,
We cling, O Lord, to Thee.

HORATIO NELSON POWERS.

WOMAN'S WAR MISSION.

FOLD away all your bright tinted dresses,
Turn the key on your jewels to-day,
And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses
Braid back, in a serious way :
No more delicate gloves, no more laces,
No more trifling in boudoir and bower;
But come with your souls in your faces-
To meet the stern needs of the hour!

Look around! By the torchlight unsteady,
The dead and the dying seem one.
What! paling and trembling already,
Before your dear mission's begun ?
These wounds are more precious than ghastly;
Fame presses her lips to each scar,
As she chants of a glory which vastly
Transcends all the horrors of war.

Pause here by this bedside-how mellow
The light showers down on that brow!

Such a brave, brawny visage !-Poor fellow !
Some homestead is missing him now.
Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing,
Some mother sits moaning, distressed,-
While the loved one lies faint, but unfearing,
With the enemy's ball in his breast.

Here's another; a lad—a mere stripling-
Picked up from the field, almost dead;
With the blood through his sunny hair rippling
From a horrible gash in the head.
They say he was first in the action,
Gay-hearted, quick-handed, and witty;
He fought till he fell with exhaustion,
At the gates of our fair Southern city.

Fought and fell 'neath the guns of that city,
With a spirit transcending his years;
Lift him up in your large-hearted pity,
And touch his pale lips with your tears.
Touch him gently-most sacred the duty
Of dressing that poor shattered hand!
God spare him to rise in his beauty,
And battle once more for the land!

Who groaned? What a passionate murmur-
In thy mercy, O God! let me die!"

Ha! surgeon, your hand must be firmer,

That grapeshot has shattered his thigh. Fling the light on those poor furrowed features, Gray-haired and unknown-bless the brother! O God! that one of thy creatures

Should e'er work such woe on another!

Wipe the sweat from his brow with your kerchief;
Let the stained tattered collar go wide.

See! he stretches out blindly to search if
The surgeon still stands at his side.

66

My son's over yonder! he's wounded

Oh! this ball that has broken my thigh!"