"All's well!"--Through the lengthening lines

Each sentry re-echoes the word, And faint through yon forest of pines,

The distant responses are heard:
On the marge of the nebulous night,
A weary, reiterate sigh,

It ripples, then vanishes quite
In the infinite depths of the sky.

"All's well!"

"All's well!"-In the battle of life, Does my soul like a sentinel stand, Prepared to encounter the strife

With well burnished weapon in hand? While the senses securely repose,

And doubt and temptation have room,

Does the clear eye of conscience unclose?

Does she listen, and hear through the gloom,"All's well!"

"All's well!" Can I echo the word?
Does faith wield supremest control?
Have its tender persuasions been heard
In the questionless depths of my soul?
Then fear not: the conflicts, the scars,

The deadly death-struggle all past,
Clear voices, that fall from the stars,

Will herald thee victor at last—
"All's well!

THE LAND WE LOVE.

Gettysburg.

BY EDWARD L. WARNER, M. D., NORTH CAROLINA.

FROM the hills of the West to the shores of the sea,
From the yellow Roanoke to the distant Pedee,
A wild wail of sorrow ascendeth on high.
For the heroes who bleed and the martyrs who die.

The hearts of our fathers are breaking with pain,
And the tears of our mothers descending like rain,
For the loved and the lost who homeward no more
Return from the field so red with their gore.

That banner of ours which so proudly hath flown Where the demon of carnage claimed all us his own, Now droops in its gloom, while the cypress is seen Entwined with the laurels on its glittering sheen.

The foemen exult as they bury the slain
Who fell in the charge on that terrible plain;
For Carolina's brave sons-the pride of the South--
Lie covered with glory at the dread cannon's mouth.

Ah! well may they gloat o'er the work they have done,
And boast of the field they so dearly have won,
When the hearts of such heroes forever are still
As fought at Manassas and Malvern's proud hill

;

And at Bethel and Sharpsburg, all reckless of death,
Came down on the foe like the hurricane's breath,
And scattered his legions o'er mountain and lea,
As the leaves of the forest or the foam of the sea.

But hark! as we mourn for the "good and the true,"
For Marshall, Burgwin and the brave Pettigrew,
Through forest and city, o'er river and plain,
A wild cry for vengeance re-echoes again.

For the noble old State, thank God for the sight!
Is burning and arming once more for the fight;
And, dashing the tear from her sorrowing eye,
By Jehovah she swears to conquer or die!

Proud men of the North, from the rebels ye spurn
A lesson of blood you will speedily learn ;
And though jubilant now, beware! oh, beware!
For your boastings shall turn to wails of despair.

The Broken Sword.*

BY WALKER MERIWETHER BELL.

"No, never shall this trusty glaive,
Which I so long have borne;

Be grasped by hands less true or brave,
Or coward's side adorn.

Too oft in war its silver beam,

True men have followed far;
As thro' the battle storm its gleam
Flashed like a falling star.

Dear hands have bound it to my side,
While struggling to repress
Unbidden tears, and sweet lips cried,

"Go love, thy cause is blest!"

Suggested by an incident which occurred after the surrender of Fort Donelson.

And often in his childish joy

Along the shining blade,
The dimpled fingers of my boy
In artless wonder strayed.

Then think you I could lightly fling.
At some proud foeman's feet,

A sword round which rich memories cling
So sacred and so sweet?

No, rather let it evermore

Rest 'neath thy rolling flood,

Oh stream, that laves my native shore,
Now darkly stained with blood!"

Then proudly turning from them, he,
Unsheathing as he spoke

The hallowed blade, across his knee
The tempered steel he broke.

And far into the azure stream!
The glittering fragments threw,
And sternly watched their last faint gleam
Sink glimmering from his view.

Whate'er he felt, in tear or sigh
Not there he sought relief-

It was not for a foeman's eye
his grief.

To gaze upon

Roll on, thou river glad and free,
Forever pure and deep;

A stainless hand has given to thee
A holy trust to keep!

Thou may'st have treasures rich and rare

Beneath thy restless wave;

But none so precious canst thou bear
As that true soldier's glaive!

METROPOLITAN RECORD.

The March of the Spoiler.

OLD GUARD.

ONE by one the leaves are shaken
From the tree;

One by one our best are taken,
And our hopes fall, hope forsaken,—
When, O God! wilt thou awaken?
When, O Liberty?

Sinks the moon behind the forest
Lost in cloud;

Darkly thou thy way explorest,
So e'en when our need is sorest,
Freedom, thou our trust ignorest,
In thy bloody shroud.

One by one our best are taken,
Hasten we!

By our swift curse overtaken
Despots' might shall yet be shaken
Yet th' Avenger shall awaken
Murdered Liberty!