Now, while she kneels before thy throne, Oh, teach her, Ruler of the Skies!

No tear is wept to thee unknown, No hair is lost, no sparrow dies.

That thou canst stay the ruthless hand Of dark disease, and soothe its pain; That only by thy stern command The battle's lost, the soldier's slain.

By day, by night--in joy or woe-- By fear oppressed, or hopes beguiled, From every danger, every foe, Oh, G.o.d! protect my wife and child!

THE SOUTH IS UP.

BY P. E. C.

The South is up in stern array-- Cha.s.seurs and Zouaves and Gallic Guard-- Types of their veteran fathers gray, Of war-marked visage, saber-scarred-- The children of Marengo's plains, Of Austerlitz and Waterloo, When tyrants dare to speak of chains We'll do as their brave sires would do.

The st.u.r.dy German, hardy Pole, Who knows how Kosciusko fell-- The Tyrolean, who feels his soul Fired with that spark which gave them Tell.

The South is up! Italia's sons-- A Garibaldi in each form-- Their hands are grasping freemen's guns, Their bosoms feel his valor warm; Their crimson shirts, in b.l.o.o.d.y fields, Like walls of flame shall front the foeman; In that dread hour whoever yields, 'Tis not the offspring of the Roman; No renegade, to scorn his brother While guarding their adopted mother-- One feeling, _nationale_ and grand, Still binds them to their native land.

The South is up! those brawny hands That bless in peace or crush in war, Who fought on India's burning sands, At Egypt's Nile, and Trafalgar; That reckless mirth, that fiery joy, On field, or fort, or slippery deck, From Clontarf's plains to Fontenoy, At Quatre Bras or old Quebec; Magenta, Malakoff, Redan, Has heard their Celtic "Clear the way!"

The slandered, exiled Irishman Stands for his Southern home to-day; And when, perchance, in Death's eclipse He grasps her flag with 'legiance due, The last breath lingering on his lips Might proudly say, I'm Irish, too!

The South is up! her native sons, Whose spirit prompts them to be free, Spring forth to man their trophied guns, So bravely won at Monterey-- Surpa.s.sing Buena Vista's deeds, Or Palo Alto's feats again, Though wives be wreathed in widow's weeds And children weep for fathers slain.

What! think to bind the South? 'Tis vain!

Freedom's inheritors at birth, Not all the leagued infernal train, If they were mustered here on earth, Those flashing eyes, like gleaming steel, Those hero boys and veterans gray!

Oh, yes! the throbbing heart can feel-- The South is up in stern array.

Yet sad 'twill grieve the Southern heart To meet their brethren foot to foot, But cancers on a vital part Must now be severed branch and root; They share with us a blood-bought fame From foreign foe and savage grim; The memory of our George's name, Revered by us, is dear to them; Our ships in every clime have shown, Where jealous monarchies might see, What stars upon our flag have grown From old _thirteen_ to _thirty-three_; Soldier to lead, or sage to teach, Deep-scienced minds, of knowledge vast, The great one's fame, as in a niche, Lives in the history of the past.

Now, pausing o'er our doubtful fate We _have been_, or we _shall be_, great.

THE OLD RIFLEMAN.

BY FRANK TICKNOR, M. D.

Now, bring me out my buckskin suit!

My pouch and powder, too!

We'll see if seventy-six can shoot As sixteen used to do.

Old Bess! we've kept our barrels bright!

Our triggers quick and true!

As far, if not as _fine_ a sight, As long ago, we drew!

And pick me out a trusty flint!

A real white and blue; Perhaps 'twill win the _other_ tint, Before the hunt is through!

Give boys your bra.s.s percussion-caps!

Old "shut-pan" suits as well!

There's something in the _sparks_; perhaps There's something in the smell!

We've seen the red-coat Briton bleed!

The red-skin Indian, too!

We never thought to draw a bead On Yankee-doodle-doo!

But, Bessie! bless your dear old heart!

Those days are mostly done; And now we must revive the art Of shooting on the run!

If Doodle must be meddling, why, There's only this to do: Select the black spot in his eye And let the daylight through!

And if he doesn't like the way That Bess presents the view, He'll, maybe, change his mind and stay Where the good Doodles do!

Where Lincoln lives. The man, you know, Who kissed the Testament; To keep the Const.i.tution? No!

_To keep the Government!_

We'll hunt for Lincoln, Bess! old tool, And take him half and half; We'll aim to _hit_ him, if a fool, And _miss_ him if a calf!

We'll teach these shot-gun boys the tricks By which a war is won; Especially how seventy-six Took Tories on the run.

ONLY ONE KILLED.

BY JULIA L. KEYES.

Only one killed in Company B, 'Twas a trifling loss--one man!

A charge of the bold and dashing Lee, While merry enough it was, to see The enemy, as he ran.

Only one killed upon our side-- Once more to the field they turn.

Quietly now the hors.e.m.e.n ride, And pause by the form of the one who died, So bravely, as now we learn.

Their grief for the comrade loved and true For a time was unconcealed; They saw the bullet had pierced him through; That his pain was brief--ah! very few Die thus on the battle-field.

The news has gone to his home, afar-- Of the short and gallant fight; Of the n.o.ble deeds of the young La Var, Whose life went out as a falling star In the skirmish of the night.

"Only one killed! It was my son,"

The widowed mother cried; She turned but to clasp the sinking one, Who heard not the words of the victory won, But of him who had bravely died.

Ah! death to her were a sweet relief, The bride of a single year.

Oh! would she might, with her weight of grief, Lie down in the dust, with the autumn leaf, Now trodden and brown and sere!

But no, she must bear through coming life Her burden of silent woe, The aged mother and youthful wife Must live through a nation's b.l.o.o.d.y strife, Sighing and waiting to go.

Where the loved are meeting beyond the stars, Are meeting no more to part, They can smile once more through the crystal bars-- Where never more will the woe of wars O'ershadow the loving heart.