Flow the pure tears that rise-
Widowed Virginia lies
Stricken to-day!

Yet charge as gallantly,
Ye whom he led!
Jackson the victor, still

Stands at your head!

Heroes! be battle done

Bravelier every one

Nerved by the thought alone-
Ashby is dead!

The Grave of Ashby.

BY OLD FOGY.

REST, soldier, rest! thy sword hath won
A fadeless wreath of glory:
Sleep calmly, for thy name adorns
Thy country's proudest story.

Virginia's cause was but thine own,
Whatever fate attend her,

In peace, to share her glories thine;
In war, thine to defend her.

Aye, foremost in the bloody fray
Of each succeeding rally;
The boldest warrior of his day,

The Murat of the Valley!

On mountain height, o'er dale and glen,
Where'er the foe dare meet them,
There Ashby led, and Ashby's men
Rushed boldly out to greet them.

Thy form hath faded from our sight,
Thy battle-shout hath ended:
But with thy country's glory bright,
Thine own great fame is blended!

In peace or war, whate'er betide,
We'll own thy gallant bearing,
And Ashby still shall be our pride,
And Ashby's deeds of daring.

Then, soldier, rest! thy sword hath won
A fadeless wreath of glory:

Sleep calmly, for thy name adorns
Thy country's proudest story.

ROPOLITAN RECORD.

The Burial of Latane.

BY JOHN R. THOMPSON.

THE combat raged not long, but ours the day;

And through the hosts which compassed us around Our little band rode proudly on its way,

Leaving one gallant comrade, glory crowned,

Unburied on the field he died to gain,

Single of all his men amid the hostile slain!

One moment on the battle's edge he stood,

Hope's halo like a helmet round his hair, The next beheld him dabbled in his blood,

Prostrate in death, and yet in death how fair. And thus he passed through the red gate of strife, From earthly crowns and palms to an immortal life.

A brother bore his body from the field,

And gave it unto stranger hands, that closed
The calm blue eyes, on earth forever sealed,

And tenderly the slender limbs composed :-
Strangers, yet sisters, who with Mary's love
Sat by the tomb, and weeping looked above.

A little child strewed roses on his bier-
Pale roses not more stainless than his soul,
Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere,

That blossomed with good actions,-brief but whole.
The aged matron and the faithful slave
Approached with reverent feet the hero's lowly grave.

No man of God might say the burial rite
Above the "rebel "-thus declared the foe
That blanched before him in the deadly fight;
But woman's voice, in accents soft and low,
Trembling with pity, touched with pathos, read
O'er his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead.

'Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power,"
Softly the promise floated on the air,
And the sweet breathings of the sunset hour

Came back responsive to the mourner's prayer:

Gently they laid him underneath the sod,

And left him with his fame, his country, and his God.

Let us not weep for him whose deeds endure,
So young, so brave, so beautiful he died;
As he had wished to die;-the past is sure
Whatever yet of sorrow may betide
Those who still linger on the stormy shore,

Change cannot harm him now, nor fortune touch him.

more.

And when Virginia, leaning on her spear,
Victrix et vidua,* the conflict done,
Shall raise her mailed hand to wipe the tear
That starts as she recalls each martyred son,
No prouder memory her breast shall sway,
Than thine, our early lost, lamented Latané!

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

Memoriæ Sacrum.

BY JAMES BARRON HOPE.

ALAS! he's cold!

Cold as the marble which his fingers wrought-
Cold but not dead, for each embodied thought
Of his, which he from the Ideal brought

To live in stone,

Assures him immortality of fame.

* The beautiful image in the concluding stanza is borrowed (and some of the language is versified) from the eloquent remarks of Hon. R. M. T. Hunter, on the death of ex-President Tyler.

Galt is not dead-

Only too soon

We saw him climb

Up to his pedestal,

Where future time,

And coming generations, in the noon.
Of his full reputation, yet shall stand
To pay their homage to his noble name.

Our Poet of the Quarries only sleeps:
He cleft his pathway up the future's steeps
And now rests from his labors.

Hence 'tis, I say

For him there is no death,

Only the stopping of the pulse and breath.

But simple breath is not the all in all-
Man hath it but in common with the brutes :-
Life is in action, and in brave pursuits.

By what we dream, and having dreamt, dare do,
We hold our places in the world's large view,
And still have part in the affairs of men
When the long sleep is on us.

He dreamt and made his dreams perpetual things,
Fit for the rugged cells of penitential saints,
Our halls of sumptuous kings,

And showed himself a poet in his art.
He chiselled lyrics with a touch so fine,

With such a tender beauty of their own,
That unset songs broke out from every line,
And verse was audible in voiceless stone.

His Psyche, soft in beauty and in placid grace,
Waits for her lover in the western breeze,