IN MEMORIAM.

Such noble things that he

Like to a soaring eagle would have been
At last lost in the sun.

In Memoriam

D. J. R.

BY REV. A. J. RYAN.

YOUNG as the youngest who donned the

True as the truest that wore it—

grey,

Brave as the bravest he marched away,
(Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay,)
Triumphant waved our Flag one day,

He fell in the front before it.

Firm as the firmest where duty led,

He hurried without a falter

Bold as the boldest he fought and bled,
And the day was won-but the field was red,
And the blood of his fresh, young heart was shed
On his country's hallowed altar.

On the trampled breast of the battle-plain,
Where the foremost ranks had wrestled-
On his pale, pure face, not a mark of pain,
(His mother dreams they will meet again,)
The fairest form amid all the slain,

Like a child asleep-he nestled.

In the solemn shades of the woods that swept

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The field where his comrades had found him

They buried him there--and the big tears crept
Into strong men's eyes that had seldom wept,
(His mother, God pity her!-smiled and slept,
Dreaming her arms were around him.)

A grave in the woods, with the grass o'ergrown,
A grave in the heart of his mother-

His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone;
There is not a name, there is not a stone-
And only the voice of the winds maketh moan
O'er the grave where never a flower is strewn—
But his memory lives in the other.
SOUTHERN SOCIETY, BALTIMORE.

Our Noble Dead.

A TRIBUTE.

BY JOHN E. HATCHER.

WE will not wander to the gloomy years
Through whose dark scenes we have so lately passed,
Where no soft beam of golden light appears,
To gild the clouds of sorrow o'er them cast.

Those things are but a solitude of graves,

Where Love and Memory pour their tears like rain, And where, in voiceless grief, the cypress waves, Above the hearts, which for us die in vain.

The dead who died, as died that gallant throng,
To shield a cause which in their eyes was just,

OUR NOBLE DEAD.

Shall live enshrined in story and in song
While ages roll above their scattered dust.

What though for them no marble shaft shall rise?
Time shall not see their sacred memory wane:
Their scroll of Fame, expansive as the skies,
Years of oblivion shall corrode in vain.

Heroic deeds are deathless, and they live
Unmarred while empires crumble into dust;
They master fame and life, and glory give
To storied urn, and animated dust.

There rose no sculptured monument to tell
Where Spartan valor broke the Persian sway,
And yet we know there nobly fought and fell
Heroic men in "Old Platea's day."

Peace to the ashes of our noble dead,
For distant eyes shall behold each name,
Brightening like morning when the night is fled,
And ever broadening on the disc of fame.

Farewell! ye high heroic hearts, farewell!
Inspired lips shall teach the world, ere long,
Ye fought to hallow story, and ye fell
To give a new apocalypse to song!

NEW YORK FREEMAN'S JOURNAL.

491

Beading the List.

"Is there any news of the war?" she said. แ 'Only a list of the wounded and dead," Was the man's reply,

Without lifting his eye.

"Tis the very thing I want," she said; "Read me a list of the wounded and dead."

He read the list-'twas a sad array

Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray;
In the very midst was a pause to tell
That his comrades asked: "Who is he, pray?"
"The only son of the Widow Gray,"
Was the proud reply

Of his captain nigh.

What ails the woman standing near?
Her face has the ashen hue of fear.

“Well, well, read on; is he wounded? quick! Oh, God! but my heart is sorrow sick!" "Is he wounded?" "No! he fell, they say, Killed outright on that fatal day!" But see, the woman has swooned away!

Sadly she opened her eyes to the light;
Slowly recalled the events of the fight;
Faintly she murmured-" Killed outright!
It has cost me the life of my only son,
But the battle is fought and the victory won;
The will of the Lord, let it be done."

STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY.

God pity the cheerless Widow Gray,
And send from the halls of Eternal Day
The light of his peace to illume her way!

Stonewall Jackson's Way.

COME, stack arms, men, pile on the rails,
Stir up the camp-fires bright,

No matter if the canteen fails,
We'll make a roaring night!
Here Shenandoah brawls along,

There lofty Blue Ridge echoes strong
To swell the brigade's rousing song

We see him now-the old slouched hat,
Cocked o'er his eye askew ;

The shrewd dry smile,-the speech so pat-
So calm, so blunt, so true.

The "Blue Light Elder " knows them well,
Says he "That's Banks-he's fond of shell,
Lord save his soul! we'll give him —————” well,
That's "Stonewall Jackson's Way."

Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off!
Old Blue Light's going to pray.
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!

Attention! it's his way!

Appealing from his native sod

In forma pauperis to God

Lay bare thine arm, stretch forth thy rod-
Amen! that's "Stonewall Jackson's Way!"

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