Her little hand is softly laid

Upon his tawny mane,

Her tender eyes are wet with tears,
Like rose-buds after rain;

The watching courtiers shake the ring
With thunderous acclaim;
But her weak lips can only shape
Her heavenly Father's mane.

The Emperor rose in purple state,
And bade his minions bear
The ransomed maiden forth again
To freedom's grateful air;
And stately priests their rites ordained

Within the temple grove,
Ascribing praise to Juno fair,

And to Olympian Jove.

So let the Church in these dark days
Stand bravely at her post,

Though cruel wars and strife abound
And Satan leads his host;

They gnash their lion fangs at her,
But ah! they gnash in vain,
For God will send his armies down
To save and to sustain.

And in some gracious coming time,
Her banner white shall be
The truest badge of might sublime,
That waves o'er land or sea;
And war's red-lettered crced die out,
Beneath her flowers of spring,

And where our martyrs fight and bleed
Their babes shall sit and sing.

OLD GUARD.

Bain in the Heart.

[The following lines were found by a Confederate soldier in a deserted house on the Peninsula, Virginia.]

"Into each life some rain must fall."

If this were all-oh! if this were all
That into each life some rain must fall,
There were fainter sobs in the poet's rhyme,
There were fewer wrecks on the shores of time.

But tempests of woe pass over the soul-
Since winds of anguish we cannot control;"
And shock after shock we are called to bear,
Till the lips are white with the heart's despair.

The shores of time with wrecks are strewn,
Into the ear comes ever a moan,
Wrecks of hopes, that set sail with glee,
Wrecks of love, sinking silently.

Many are hidden from the human eye,
Only God knoweth how deep they lie;

Only God heard when arose the prayer

Help me to bear!-oh! help me to bear.

"Into each life some rain must fall,"

If this were all-oh! if this were all!
Yet there's a refuge from storm and blast,
Gloria patri-we'll reach it at last.

Be strong, be strong, to my heart I cry,
The pearl in the wounded shell doth lie;
Days of sunshine are given to all,

Though into each life some rain must fall.

The Virginians of the Valley.

BY DR. F. O. TICKNOR, GEORGIA.

THE knightliest of the knightly race,
Who, since the days of old,
Have kept the lamp of chivalry
Alight in hearts of gold;
The kindliest of the kindly band,

Who, rarely hunting ease,

Yet rode with Spotswood round the land,

And Raleigh round the seas.

Who climbed the blue Virginia hills,
Against embattled foes,

And planted there in valleys fair
The lily and the rose;

Whose fragrance lives in many lands,

Whose beauty stars the earth,
And lights the hearts of many homes

In loveliness and worth.

We thought they slept! the sons who kept, The names of noble sires,

And slumbered while the darkness crept

Around the vigil fires.

But still the Golden Horseshoe knights

Their old Dominion keep,

Whose foes have found enchanted ground,

But not a knight asleep.

a Prayer.

BY FADETTE, AUTHOR OF INGEMISCO.

I.

LORD GOD OF HOSTS! we lift our heart to Thee! Our streaming eyes lift vainly toward Thy Throne Earth's mists and shadows are so mighty grown, The gleam of seraph-wings no more we see.

II.

Lord God of Hosts! we lift our heart to Thee! Our hands are fettered down by galling chains, No more the sceptre in our grasp remains, Beneath the yoke we pass, with liberty.

III.

Lord God of Hosts! we lift our heart to Thee!
Our brows are bowed beneath Thy crown of thorn,
'Tis heavy with the blood of braves we mourn,
It darkles with the life-blood of the free!

IV..

Lord God of Hosts! we lift our heart to Thee!
A ceaseless moan wails on in breeze of morn,
Through all the busy din of day upborne,
And when the gloaming broodeth o'er the sea.

V.

O God of Hosts! turn Thou and hear that moan!
No Southern lips are strangers to its sound,
And shuddering in the merry frolics round,
Our prattling children catch its monotone.

VI.

Strong men weep now, who never wept before,
Girl voices sorrow loud and passionate,
Black, stolid women yearning at Thy gate,
Prayer-worn lips quiver, faded eyes brim o'er.

VII.

Thy gate-it is the only open door,

Where standeth Azrael, beckoning one by one ;By which we leave, our pilgrim goal being won, This drear God's Acre, crimsoned, drenched in gore.

VIII.

Each lowly grave our mountains proudly mark;
Death seared the land throughout with fiery tread,
O Thou who gavest tears to Lazarus dead,
Behold our mother-country lieth stark!

IX.

It is too late for us to raise or save,

We struggled with the blood-hound at her throat, We saw his savage glare above her gloat; Teach us to kneel, O God, beside her grave.

X.

Teach us to kneel to Thee alone, O God!

The tyrant fain would spurn us at his feet,

The gore upon our mother's winding-sheetWould brand us murderers, trickling through the sod.

XI.

Teach us to kneel-teach us to pray, O God,

Not for revenge, for vengeance is Thine own;