As blessed the earth since time began.
His laurels bright, the honors claim
Of Christian, statesman, warrior's name:
In halls of wisdom wisely great,
A master in the grave debate;

In battle field the first to lead-
A tower of strength in day of need.
On him did justice never frown,
His brow wore duty's iron crown,
And Honor gave him, from his birth,
A mountain majesty of worth;
While mercy smiles, recounting o'er
His boundless blessings to the poor.
Sleep, Hero, sleep! rest, Patriot, rest!
Among the hearts that loved thee best.
Long as the sun on high shall burn
We'll bend with reverence o'er thy urn,
And tears of love, till Time's last day,
Shall consecrate thy hallowed clay !`

GALVESTON, TEXAS, June 5th, 1866.

Little Giffen.

BY F. O. TICKNOR, M. D.

OUT of the focal and foremost fire,
Out of the hospital walls as dire;
Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene,
(Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen :)
Spectre, such as you seldom see-
Little Giffen of Tennessee!

"Take him and welcome!" the surgeons said;
"Much your Doctor can help the dead!"
And so we took him and brought him where
The balm was sweet on the summer air;
And we laid him down on a wholesome bed
Utter Lazarus, heel to head!

Weary War with the bated breath,
Skeleton boy against skeleton Death.
Months of torture, how many such!
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch!
Still a glint in the steel blue eye
Spoke of the spirit that wouldn't die,

And didn't! nay, more! in death's despite
The crippled skeleton learned to write!
"Dear mother" at first, of course; and then,
"Dear Captain"-inquiring about the "men."
Captain's answer-" Of eighty and five,
*Giffen and I are left alive!"

"Johnston's pressed at the front, they say Little Giffen was up and away.

A tear, his first, as he bade good bye, Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye; "I'll write, if spared;" there was news of a fight But none of Giffen! he did not write! I sometimes fancy that when I'm king, And my gallant courtiers form a ring, All so thoughtless of power and pelf, And each so loyal to all but self, I'd give the best on his bended knee, Yea, barter the whole for the Loyalty Of little Giffen of Tennessee! THE LAND WE LOVE.

Lines.

TO GENERAL S. B. BUCKNER.

BY ROSARITA.

WE meet to-night

In a gorgeous light,

But our hearts are full of sorrow

We gather now

With a cloudless brow

And will smile again to-morrow.

But the barbed dart

Is in our heart,

And there it rankles ever;

When we think of our brave

In a distant grave
And know they are gone forever!

For us they fell;

Let history tell

In its page of crimson story,
How they faced the tide
And bravely died

On fields so dread and gory.

They may crush us low,

'Neath the iron bow

* The following poems were transmitted through the Bazaar Post

Office, New Orleans, February 23rd, 1867.

That may ruin our Southern land,
But the right to mourn

Is from God alone,

And we mourn our broken land.

Reply to Rosarita.

S. B. BUCKNER.

'Neath the gorgeous light,

That beams brightly to-night,
We dare not even dream of our sorrow;
And the chivalrous dead,

From their chill, gory bed,

May not claim our thoughts on the morrow.

And no tears may now fall

On the funeral pall

Over which our vigils we're keeping;

No flowers ever bloom

O'er the cold, silent tomb,

Where our dead are so peacefully sleeping.

And the funeral bell,

May never more tell

The sad throes of the heart that is breaking;

Nor the mother may mourn

Her brave boy lately borne

In silence, to wait the last waking.

And the maiden must still

The emotions that thrill
Through her soul, in agony weeping;
Though her heart may be crushed,
Yet her sobs must be hushed,
O'er the grave where her lover is sleeping.
And no tablets may tell

Where the young hero fell,

Nor recount the bright deeds of his story;
But neglected he sleeps,

While in silence she weeps,

As she treasures his love and his glory.
For the word of command,

Has late gone through the land,
That 'tis treason to mourn the departed;
And thus, God on his throne

To vain man must alone
For his errors when love He imparted.

Somebody's Darling.

MISS MARIA LA COSTE, GEORGIA.

INTO a ward of the white-washed halls
Where the dead and the dying lay,-
Wounded by bayonets, shells and balls,
Somebody's darling was borne one day—
Somebody's darling so young and so brave!
Wearing yet on his sweet pale face—
Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave-
The lingering light, of his boyhood's grace!