Near to, a venerable priest,

Whose silvered locks and kindly face,
Bespeak the Christian's holy faith,
Implores of God his loving grace!

With eyes fixed on the heavenly dome,
Thence calls he strength to patient hope,
And asks a balm for every wound
With eloquence and fervid trope.

All hearts in reverence deep are bowed,
And with a noble grief are stirred-
And pulsate with a sobbing throb,
To every burning, suppliant word.

This silent tribute, oh how grand!
How great the souls that homage pay!
The glory of the mighty dead
Transcends the meed of vain array!

Let jealous power restrict the pomp
Of martial show to doubtful fame,
To add a laurel to the brow
Of mouldering patriot of a name.

'Tis meet that fame obscure and weak,
Should blazoned be by drum and bell-
That mobocratic praises should
The list of doubtful praises swell;

But greatness true outshines the glare
Of vain device and tinseled gaud,
And though the tongue of Spite defames
Its glorious halo sheds abroad.

The rites religious now performed,
The slumbering chief is gently borne
By princes all-to take his leave
For land, where for him millions mourn.

Then came the last, the sad farewell
Of living chieftains to the dead-
The heroes, who, on Shilo's plains,
Were by the slumbering chieftain led.

PART THIRD.

With sorrowing pride the ocean bears,
Upon its gently swelling breast,

The sacred relics to the shores
On which is reared their templed rest.

The waves propitious-Texas mourns
In silent grief, for in her thrall,
A tyrant will forbids the meed
Of public woe, and homage all!

Upon her broad and sunny plains,
Near to the Ocean's plaintive wave,
With Glory's wreath upon his brow
The chieftain sleeps in honored grave.

Wave, bird, and zephyr hourly trill
In unison and plaintive strain,
A requiem to the mighty dead,
And Echo chants the sad refrain.

The Burial of Albert Sidney John

ston.*

BY MOLLIE E. MOORE, TEXAS.

TEXAS, like Mary, a worshipper,

Comes sorrowing!

Ha! who keeps her away from the sepulchre
Of her shrouded king?

They strike like cowards her galling chains,

And sneer that her lips are strangely dumb! Christ! will the blood keep calm in our veins Till the end is come?

Alas! my brothers, whose brave forms moved
In the battle flame!

Alas! my sisters, whose hearts were proved
When the midnight came!

He comes, whose arm was so firmly steeled!
Oh, warrior what of the hidden past?
Are you come as a messenger from the field
Where your sword shone last?

Oh! silent and royal, that mad day died
On a sullen night!

But the valley was grand in the glow of thy pride!
Is it not our right?

*The circumstances attending the removal and reburial of the remains of General Albert Sidney Johnston, are of too recent occur. rence, and too well and generally understood, to need further illustration than is conveyed in the above lines.-Editress.

The laurels thy name and thy sword hath won us,

The trust our fetterless soil will keep! But the eyes of our masters are upon us, And we may not weep!

No "glorious pomp," in the guarded street-
No roll of drums—

Naught save the echo of mournful feet
Where our hero comes—

Silent bells in each guarded steeple!
Met, like a prisoner hanged for crime?
But a vengeance cometh, Oh, my people-
Let us bide our time.

Richmond on the James.

BY ANNIE MARIA WELRY, KENTUCKY.

A SOLDIER boy from Bourbon lay gasping on the field, When the battle's shock was over, and the foe was forced to yield;

He fell a youthful hero, before the foeman's aims, On a blood-red field near Richmond-near Richmond on the James.

But one still stood beside him—his comrade in the fray. They had been friends together through boyhood's happy day,

And side by side had struggled, in fields of blood and

flames,

To part that eve near Richmond-near Richmond on the James.

He said, "I charge thee, comrade, the friend in days

of yore,

To the far, far distant, near ones, that I shall see no

more;

Tho' scarce my lips can whisper their dear and wellknown names,

To bear to them my blessing from Richmond on the James.

"Bear my good sword to my brother, and the badge upon my breast

To the young and gentle sister, that I used to love the

best;

One lock take from my forehead, for the mother still that dreams,

Of her soldier-boy near Richmond-near Richmond on the James.

'Oh, I wish that mother's arms were folded round me

now,

That her gentle hand could linger one moment on my

brow:

For I know that she is praying, where our blessed hearth-light gleams,

For her soldier's safe return, from Richmond on the James.

"And on my heart, dear comrade, close lay those nutbrown braids,

Of one that was the fairest of all the village maids;
We were to have been wedded, but death the bride-

groom claims,

And she is far that loves me, from Richmond on the James.