And all prove false that seemed so fair,
Such words as these should mock the air,
And that, mistrusting fate and fame,
We question, "Are we still the same?"

Oh, morbid doubt! Oh, words of wind!
I cast ye forth as little worth.
Forgive them, Omnipresent mind!

Forgive them, brothers bound on earth.
To one poor heritage of death,
And hear conviction's voice proclaim
The potent truth, "We are the same."

The same who faced the Northern hosts,

With dauntless hearts and shining spears;
The same who laughed to scorn their boasts,
And prove the few the many's peers,
And did in days the work of years;
O'erwhelmed-not conquered-overrun,
And desolated, and undone.

Yet still the same, the very same,

Believe it-tremble and believe—
Oh, tyrants who with sword and flame,
Advanced to slaughter and bereave;
Then staid to torture and deceive;
Are we, who, with a faith sublime,
Endure our fate--abide our time.

NEW YORK NEWS.

Song of the South.

Choir.

SING us a song of the South we love!
O! Minstrel sing us a song!

Sad as that of a mateless dove,

But make it not, Minstrel, long!

On his viol a master's mother breathed
The latest sigh from her mouth,-
Oh! thus on thy harp in cypress wreathed,
Catch thou from the breath of the South!

But, Minstrel, if thou hast ever an art,
To teach men to forget,-

Reserve that strain for some other heart,
For the South would remember yet.

But touch not for her one vaunting chord,
Her sons would but weep at thy strain;
The dream of her pride was dispelled by the sword,
Her laurels encircle the slain!

The citron shall bloom in the orange grove,
And the muscadine twine as of yore,

But her dear darling dead, embalmed in her love,
Shall return for their fruit never more!

Then tuning thy harp o'er the fresh turned sod, 'Neath a bough where the rain-crow sings,

Catch the breath of the South, like the spirit of God, Poured over thy trembling strings!

* Paganini.

Minstrel.

The song of the South, with her free flag furled.

My heart grows mute at the prayer!

For the anthem would trouble the heart of the world Like the song of a fallen star!

And they should remember that 'twas not alone,
'Gainst the odds of her Northern foe;

That she struck when the star of her victory shone,
Or sank in her hour of woe!

But the Teuton and Celt, from the Shannon and Rhine,
And the Northman from Ottowa's banks,

Came to barter their blood at Mammon's red shrine,
And filled up the enemy's ranks.

Kildare and O'Neal, these SONS would ye call,
Who for gold in recreant bands,

The chains which are rusting in Erin's soul
Have fettered on Southern hands!

Let the victory there, to the North remain,
And the same to the Foreign Powers;
The South has enough, amid all her pain—
For the honor and glory are ours!

. So I'll hang my harp o'er the fresh turned sod,
On a bough where the rain-crow sings,

Till the breath of the South, like the spirit of God,
Pour over my trembling strings.

THE LAND WE LOVE.

Manassas.

BY CATHERINE M. WARFIELD.

THEY have met at last-as storm clouds Meet in heaven,

And the Northmen back and bleeding
Have been driven :

And their thunders have been stilled,
And their leaders crushed or killed,
And their ranks with terror thrilled,

Rent and riven!

Like the leaves of Vallambrosa,

They are lying

In the moonlight, in the midnight,

Dead and dying:

Like those leaves before the gale,
Swept their legions wild and pale;
While the host that made them quail

Stood defying.

When-aloft in morning sunlight,

Flags were flaunted,

And "swift vengeance on the rebel"

Proudly vaunted:

Little did they think that night

Should close upon their shameful flight,

And rebels, victors in the fight,

Stand undaunted.

But peace to those who perished

In our passes!

Light be the earth above them,

Green the grasses

Long shall Northmen rue the day,
When they met our stern array,
And shrunk from battle's wild affray
At Manassas !

Scene in a Countrg Hospital.

BY PAUL H. HAYNE.

HERE, lonely, wounded and apart,

From out my casement's glimmering round, I watch the wayward bluebirds dart

Across yon flowery ground;

How sweet the prospect! and how fair
The balmy peace of earth and air.

But, lowering over fields afar,

A red cloud breaks with sulphurous breath, And well I know what gory Star,

Is regnant in his house of Death;

Yet faint the conflict's gathering roll,
To the fierce tempest in my soul.

I, who the foremost ranks had led,

To strike for cherished home and land

Groan idly on this torturing bed,