The moon dips in yon tawny cloud, The ghostly leaves wave to and fro; And falls the order, stern and loud: "Up from the trenches, ho!" As when they heard the rattling drum Ah! not in anger, now, they meet, Among his men the leader rides, Calm Peace, that Death can never mar, On his glory-lighted brow abides, He, by whose hand a comrade fell, No sentry's challenge cleaves the air, But when the heavy night is o'er, And eastern skies are golden red, The spectres fade, and lo! once more The trenches keep their dead. ONLY GOING TO THE GATE. BY ETHEL LYNN. Like a bell of blossom ringing, Clear and childish, shrill and sweet, Floating to the porch's shadow, With the fainter fall of feet, Comes the answer softly backward, Through the moonlight, warm and scented, Love to Beauty breathes his sigh, Loth to speak the low good-by. Oh, these gates along our pathway, How they stand before, behind us; Toll-gates some, with price to pay; Spring-gates some that shut forever: Cloud-gates some, that melt away! Just across their slender weavings Troth-plight happy hands have crossed Yet its locks have rusted ruddy, Or its keys in night shade lost. Over latches, softly falling, Good-by prayers have dropped like dew; Little gateways, softly shutting, Yet have cut a love in two. So we pass them going upward On our journey, one by one, To the distant shining wicket Where each traveller goes alone: Where the friends who journey with us Strangely falter, stop and wait; Father, mother, child or lover, THE CHILD AND THE SUNSHINE. GEORGE COOPER. Through the doorway flowed the sunshine In a flood of molten gold; Like a cataract of glory Down the rifted clouds it rolled, While a child upon the carpet, For a cloud had wandered o'er us, Still the child, its arms extended, Happy childhood! watching, waiting, And your longing heart will linger, THE BLUE AND THE GRAY, F. M. FINCH. 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. From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers Alike for the friend and the foe; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment Day Under the roses the Blue, So with an equal splendor Waiting the Judgment Day- So when the summer calleth Wet with the rain the Gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading Under the sod and the dew, Under the garlands the Gray. No more shall the war-cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead! Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment Day Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray. THE PETRIFIED FERN. MARY BOLLES BRANCH. In a valley, centuries ago, Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender, Veining delicate and fibres tender; Waving when the wind crept down so low; Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it, Playful sunbeams darted in and found it, Drops of dew stole by night and crowned it, Monster fishes swam the silent main, Did not number with the hills and trees, Only grew and waved its wild sweet way No one came to note it day by day. Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood, Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion |