Like slender shadows on fleecy snow,

O'er his cheek crept the fringing lashes Of the white closed lids of his great dark eyes, All veined with faint, azure flashes.

O'er the wounded breast, with a touching grace,
His delicate hands were folded,

With a meek soft clasp, as if for a prayer
Their dying shape was moulded.

I thought, as beside this warrior child
Mine own young head was bending,
That perhaps an angel mother's prayers
Were heavenward then ascending:

That the arm of the Father who dwelleth where
Sweet peace is never-ending,

Might be found in the battle's dreaded hour
Her darling boy defending.

I thought how the voice of the false-faced world
Would waft her the mournful story,
With its pompous words for a healing balm,
And its mocking meed of glory.

But that mother's breast with its hopeless grief
And its mighty pain is aching;-

The chaplet of Fame is a withered wreath,
When a mother's heart is breaking.

A Prayer for Peace.

BY S. Y. LEVY, SAVANNAH, GA.

ALMIGHTY GOD! eternal Sire and King!

Ruler Supreme, who all things didst create; Whose everlasting praises angels sing;

Whose word is mercy and whose thought is fate;

Trembling before Thy awful, awful throne we kneel,
Beseeching mercy at Thy gracious hand;

Praying that in compassion Thou wilt heal
The bleeding wounds of this most suffering land.

We know our sins are manifold, O Lord,
And that Thy wrath against us is but right;
For we have wandered widely from Thy word,
And things committed wrongful in Thy sight.

But Thou, O Lord, art powerful to save,
And full of mercy, full of love art Thou;
Else had we not the courage thus to brave
Thy righteous wrath-thus at Thy feet we bow.

O'er all our fields, where late the joyful air
Struck rustling music from the waving grain,
Now the sad earth is lying stark and bare,

Or groaning 'neath the burden of our slain.

In sackcloth robed, disconsolate and wild,

With ashes strewed upon her lovely breast, Our country mourns her hearts and homes defiledWeeps for her bravest, and bewails her best.

From the cold hearths, where lately genial fires
Beamed upon scenes of innocent delight,
The little children vainly call their sires,

Or fly their burning homes with wild affright.

Our punishment is very hard to bear;

• We droop and faint beneath Thy chastening rod; Oh, list in mercy to our earnest prayer,

And move Thy anger from us, O our God!

Throw, Lord, thy buckler thick 'twixt us and harm;
Bid the destruction and the carnage cease;
Outstretch in power Thy all-protecting arm;
Roll back the clouds of war, and give us peace.

And as Thou led'st Thy chosen people forth
From Egypt's sullen wrath, O King of kings!
So smite the armies of the cruel North,

And bear us to our hopes "on eagle's wings."

But should Thy wisdom still defer the day-
The wished-for day our freedom shall be won-
Oh, grant us the humility to say,

Not human will, but Thine, O Lord, be done!

Bury me on the Field, Boys.

[A Confederate officer, Major Roberdore Wheat, while leading a charge in one of the battles before Richmond, fell mortally wounded, exclaiming: "Bury me on the field, boys!"]

BY MISS MARY S. GRAYSON, MARYLAND.

BURY me on the field, boys!

When the deadly strife is o'er ;
This trusty blade I'll wield, boys,
For our firesides never more :
Come, raise my head, I scarce can hear
The thundering cannon's roar.

Bury me where the countless dead

In dreamless slumber rest,

Where the charger's iron hoof may tread

O'er the sod that wraps my breast;

Here let me sleep, since victory

Our glorious cause hath blessed.

Yes, lay me here, where these pine-trees wave,
In the evening's solemn hush,
Where stars may shine on my lowly grave,

Where the morning sun may blush;

And I'll be proud to rest, boys,

Where our dauntless columns rush.

Shed not one tear for me-nay, never,
My comrades brave and bold;
I shrink not back from that dark river
Which flows so icy cold;

But wish my mother could hold my hand, And kiss me as of old.

My sight is growing strangely dim,
I feel Death's chilly wing;
Methought I heard the cradle-hymn
My mother used to sing;

Strange how such pleasant fantasies
This parting hour should bring.

Nay, pause not by my side, boys,
See where our flag on high
Floats o'er the battle's tide, boys-
Haste to that standard fly-
And tell my dear old mother, boys,
Her son knew how to die.

Bury him on the field, boys,

By light of the dying sun,

With the sword he used to wield, boys,
For the conflict now is done;

Nor weep, for that warrior brave, boys,
A double crown hath won.

Maxey Gregg.

BY C. G. P.

LONG have I lingered by the lovely mount Where our great hero lies,

To hear some gifted bard in song recount His deeds of high emprise ;