STAND FIRM!

Alas! in thy fair, stricken land,

What household group hath joy to-day?
Its noble sons, and daughters pine,

In silence 'neath oppression's sway;
Yet mid the griefs their hearts that wring,
They weep for thy deep suffering.

May He who ruleth over all,

Soon re-unite thy household band,
And let thy honored lord once more
Amid his own beloved stand.
Millions will hail the joyful hour,
That sees him free from tyrant's power!

METROPOLITAN RECORD.

Stand Firm.

ADAPTED TO A GERMAN AIR.

BY MISS JULIA C. MINTZING, SOUTH CAROLINA.

THE storm has drifted far the wreck,
The main-sails shattered, sweep the deck,
The flag is furled in glory—
Aye comrades, lift the fallen yards,
Stand firm!-the helm holds yet rewards,
Your faith shall write its story.

Tho' mad the breakers, rough the tide,
Tho' tempests wild our bark shall ride,
Thro' Hate's hell-whirl of fire!

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Man the main gallant!-reef the sails!
True to the Past-no doubt empales,
Tho' fiercer waves rise higher.

The clouds are towering dark with gloom,
The signal beacons fitful loom,

Tho' shrouding mist we're bounding [

The fog-bells ring in the low appeal,
Solemn the Future-rifts reveal,
We bide the clash resounding.

Each breeze a thousand echoes brings,
The thunder still-of battle rings,

Thy wrath for them is gleaming,

Its lightnings flash a ghastly wreck
Steady our helm! boys, clear the deck!

Strike!-while they still are dreaming!

Strike!-God shall nerve, shall guide the hand, Strike for the rights He gave your land,

To live as men, not minions!

Go hurl the despots back to Hell,

Let manhood break the slavish spell,
Fretting the soul's free pinions.

Then, comrades, lift the fallen yards,
Firm by the helm !-high o'er ye, guards,
For aye, that sign in glory:-
The din, the clash, the conflict comes,
And louder call the echoing drums-
God!-write us free in story!

DIXIE COTTAGE, TAPPAHANNOCK, VA., March 25th, 1867.

THERE is dust on the doorway, there is mould on the wall,

There's a chill at the hearthstone, a hush through the

hall,

And the stately old mansion stands darkened and cold, By the leal loving hearts that it sheltered of old.

No light at the lattice, no smile at the door,
No cheer at its table, no dance on its floor,
But "glory departed," and silence alone!
Dust unto dust, upon pillar and stone!

No laughter of childhood, no shout on the lawn,
No footstep to echo the feet that are gone,
Feet of the beautiful, form of the brave;
Failing in other lands, gone to the grave!

No anthem of praises, no hymn rising clear,
No song at the bridal, no wail at the bier,

All the chords of its symphonies scattered and riven,
Its altar in ashes! Its incense in Heaven!

'Tis life's deepest sadness, thus lonely to stand

'Mid the wreck of a HOME, once the pride of the land, Its chambers unfilled as its children depart,

The melody stilled in its desolate heart.

Yet softly the sunshine still rests on the grass,
And lightly and swiftly the cloud shadows pass,

And still the broad meadow exults in the sheen, With its foam-crests of snow and its billows of green.

And the verdure shall creep to the mouldering walls And the sunlight shall sleep in the desolate halls, And the foot of the pilgrim shall find to the last, Some fragrance of home in the shrine of the past.

THL LAND WE LOVE.

When the War is Over.

A CHRISTMAS LAY.

MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON.

АH! the happy Christmas times!
Times we all remember;
Times that flung a ruddy glow

O'er the gray December;
Will they never come again,

With their song and story?
Never wear a remnant more
Of their olden glory?
Must the little children miss

Still the festive token?

Must their realm of young romance
All be marred and broken?
Must the mother promise on,

While her smiles dissemble,
And she speaks right quietly,

Lest her voice should tremble:

"Darlings! wait till father comes-
"Wait-and we'll discover

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WHEN THE WAR IS OVER.

Never were such Christmas times,

When the war is over."

II.

Underneath the midnight sky,
Bright with starry beauty,
Sad, the shivering sentinel
Treads the round of duty:
For his thoughts are far away,
Far from strife and battle,
As he listens dreamingly,
To his baby's prattle;-
As he clasps his sobbing wife
Wild with sudden gladness,
Kisses all her tears away-

Chides her looks of sadness-
Talks of Christmas nights to come,-
And his step grows lighter,
Whispering, while his stiffening hand
Grasps his musket tighter;—
"Patience, love!-keep heart! keep hope!

To your weary rover,
What a home our home will be

When the war is over!"

III.

By the twilight Christmas fire,

All her senses laden

With a weight of tenderness,

Sits the musing maiden; From the parlor's cheerful blaze, Far her visions wander,

To the white-tent gleaming bright