We knew it had hardly a value in gold, But our boys thought little of price or pay, Or of bills that were over due; We knew if it brought us bread to-day, It was the best our poor country could do. Keep it it tells our history over, From the birth of its dream to the last; Modest, and born of the angel of Hope, Like the hope of success it has passed. Ashes of Glory. BY A. J. REQUIER. FOLD up the gorgeous, silken sun, No trumpet's note need harshly blare- Nor trailing sables drape the bier That frees a dauntless soul! It lived with Lee, and arched his brow It sleeps the sleep of Jackson now, ASHES OF GLORY. It was outnumbered, not outdone, And they shall shuddering tell, Sleep, shrouded Ensign! not the breeze Not Arthur's knights, amid the gloom, Nor all that antique fables feign, Can bid thee pale! Proud emblem, still, Their proudest kingly lines. Sleep! in thine own historic might, METROPOLITAN RECORD. 415 The Confederate Flag. BY H. L. FLASH. FOUR stormy years we saw it gleam, The beacon that, with streaming ray, They jeer, who trembled as it hung, It fell-but stainless at it rose, Martyred like Stephen, in the strife; Passing, like him, girdled with foes, From death to life. Fame's trophy, sanctified by tears, Folded, true-what then? four short years THE BLESSED HAND. 417 The Blessed Hand. Respectfully Dedicated to the Ladies of the Southern Relief Fair, Baltimore. BY S. TEACKLE WALLIS. There is a legend of an English monk who died at the monastery of Aremburg, where he had gone and illuminated many books, hoping to be rewarded in Heaven. Long after his death his tomb was opened, and nothing could be seen of his remains but the right hand with which he had done his pious work, and which had been miraculously preserved from decay. FOR you and me who love the light It were indeed a dreary lot, To shut ourselves away From every glad and sunny thing, And pleasant sight and sound, And pass from out a silent cell, Not so the good monk Anselm, thought, Its own sweet sunshine made; From matin-song till even, And trusted in the Book of Life To read his name in Heaven. What holy books his gentle art What blossoms almost fragrant-twined Around each blessed name, And how his Saviour's cross and crown Shone out from cloud of flame! But unto clerk as unto clown, They laid him where a window's blaze And lifting up the pavement, then, It was not stiff as dead men's are, |