I have writers of history, ethics, romance,
In England, America, Germany, France,

And a gay little poet in Swinburne :

"Reformers, who go in for infinite smash;
The widows' and orphans' oppressor;
D.D.'s by the dozen, whose titles are trash,
To be written with two little d's and a dash;
And many a Father Confessor :

"And besides all the hypocrites," chuckled the Deil, "Who serve me with Ave and Credo,

I have tyrants that murder, commanders that steal, Dahomey, Mouravieff, Butler, McNeil,

Thad. Stevens, Joe Holt, Escobedo :

"But the man of all others the most to my mind, The dearest terrestrial creature,

Is the blaspheming priest and the tyrant combined,
Who mocks at his Maker and curses his kind,
In the garb of a Methodist preacher.

"And so long as of Darkness I'm absolute Prince,
From his praise there shall be no deduction,
Whose acts a most exquisite malice evince,
And whose government furnishes excellent hints,
Opportunely for HELL'S RECONSTRUCTION."

Then the Fiend, with a laughter no language may tell, Drained his cup, and abasing his crown low, Cried "Hip, Hip, Hurrah!" and a boisterous yell Went round till the nethermost confines of Hell

Re-echoed "Three cheers for old Brownlow!"

The Brave at Home.

THE maid who binds her warrior's sash,
And smiling, all her pain dissembles—
The while, beneath her drooping lash,
One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles-
Though Heaven alone records the tear,
And Fame shall never know her story,
Her heart has shed a drop as dear
As ever dewed the field of glory!

The wife who girds her husband's sword,
'Mid little ones who weep and wonder;
And bravely speaks the cheering word,
What though her heart be rent asunder-
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear
The bolts of war around him rattle,
Has shed as sacred blood as e'er

Was poured upon the field of battle!

The mother who conceals her grief,

While to her heart her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot-brow she blessesWith no one but her secret God

To know the pain that weighs upon her— Sheds holy blood, as e'er the sod

Received on Freedom's field of honor!

Clouds in the West.

BY A. J. REQUIER,

HARK! on the wind that whistles from the West,
A manly shout for instant succor comes,

From men who fight outnumbered, breast to breast,
With rage indented drums!

Who dare for child, wife, country stream and strand,
Though but a fraction to the swaying foe,

There at the flooded gate-ways of the land,
To stem a torrent's flow.

To arms! brave sons of each embattled State,
Whose queenly standard is a Southern star;
Who would be free must ride the lists of Fate,
On Freedom's victor car!

Forsake the field, the shop, the mart, the hum
Of craven traffic for the mustering clan;

The dead themselves are pledged that you should come,
And prove yourself—a man.

The sacred turf where first a thrilling grief

Was felt, which taught you Heaven alone disposesGod! can you live to see a foreign thief,

Contaminate its roses?

Blow, summoning trumpets, a compulsive stave,
Through all the bounds, from Beersheba to Dan;
Come out! come out! who scorns to be a slave,
Or claims to be a man!

Hark on the breezes whistling from the West,
A manly shout for instant succor comes,
From men who fight, outnumbered breast to breast,
With rage indented drums!

Who charge and cheer amid the murderous din,
Where still your battle-flags unbended wave,
Dying for what your fathers died to win,
And you must fight to save.

Ho! shrilly fifes that stir the vales from sleep,
Ho! brazen thunders from the mountain's hoar;
The very waves are marshalling on the deep,
While tempests tread the shore.

Arise and swear your palm-engirdled land,
Shall burial only yield a bandit foe;
Then spring upon the caitiffs, steel in hand,
And strike the fatal blow.

Song of the First Virginia Cavalry.

I.

MOUNT! mount! and away!

Stay not to entwine

Fresh garlands around

Full beakers of wine;
Mount! mount! and away!
One cup we will drain
To hearts that are true,
Then spur to the plain.

II.

Bright wreaths may be won
With sabre and spear,
Than garlands with wine
To the soldier more dear:
And wine may be drained
Of a far deeper red—

'Tis the blood of the foe
By the sharp sabre shed.

III.

Ring out bugle note,

Ring out loud and clear,

No spirit grows cold,

No heart thinks of fear.
On! steady, forward

With thundering tramp,
Let comrades not think

We loiter in the camp.