THINKING OF THE SOLDIERS.

We were sitting around the table, Just a night or two ago, In the little cozy parlor, With the lamp-light burning low, And the window-blinds half opened, For the summer air to come, And the painted curtains moving Like a busy pendulum.

Oh! the cushions on the sofa, And the pictures on the wall, And the gathering of comforts, In the old familiar hall; And the wagging of the pointer, Lounging idly by the door, And the flitting of the shadows From the ceiling to the floor.

Oh! they wakened in my spirit, Like the beautiful in art, Such a busy, busy thinking-- Such a dreaminess of heart, That I sat among the shadows, With my spirit all astray; Thinking only--thinking only Of the soldiers far away;

Of the tents beneath the moonlight, Of the stirring tattoo's sound, Of the soldier in his blanket, In his blanket on the ground; Of the icy winter coming, Of the cold bleak winds that blow, And the soldier in his blanket, In his blanket on the snow.

Of the blight upon the heather, And the frost upon the hill, And the whistling, whistling ever, And the never, never still; Of the little leaflets falling, With the sweetest, saddest sound-- And the soldier--oh! the soldier, In his blanket on the ground.

Thus I lingered in my dreaming, In my dreaming far away, Till the spirit's picture-painting Seemed as vivid as the day; And the moonlight faded softly From the window opened wide, And the faithful, faithful pointer Nestled closer by my side.

And I knew that 'neath the starlight, Though the chilly frosts may fall, That the soldier will be dreaming, Dreaming often of us all.

So I gave my spirit's painting Just the breathing of a sound, For the dreaming, dreaming soldier, In his slumber on the ground.

_November 24, 1861._

THE DYING SOLDIER.

BY JAMES A. MECKLIN.

Gather round him where he's lying, Hush your footsteps, whisper low, For a soldier here is dying, In the sunset's radiant glow.

Beating, beating, slowly beating, Runs the life-blood through his frame; Swift the soldier's breath is fleeting, And he calls his mother's name:

"Mother, mother, come and kiss me, Ere my spirit fades away, For I know you oft will miss me, When you watch the sinking day.

"Brother, sister, nearer, nearer!

Place, oh, place your hands in mine, You whose love than life was dearer, Let your arms around me twine.

"Father, see the sun is fading From the hill-tops of the west, And the valley night is shading-- Farewell, loved ones, I'm at rest."

Dying, dying! yes, he's dying!

Close the eyelids, let him rest; No more sorrow, no more sighing, E'er again shall heave his breast.

Sleeping, sleeping, calmly sleeping, In the church-yard cold and drear, And the wintry winds are heaping O'er him leaflets brown and sear.

And he's resting, where forever Clang of trumpet, roll of drum, Roar of cannon, never, never, Never more to him shall come.

PENSACOLA: TO MY SON.

BY M. S.

Beautiful the land may be, Its groves of palm, its laurel-trees, And o'er the smiling, murm'ring sea, Soft may blow the Southern breeze-- And land, and sea, and balmy air, May make a home of beauty there.

And bright beneath Floridian sky, The world to thy young fancy seems: I see the light that fills thine eye, I know what spirit rules thy dreams; But flower-gemmed sh.o.r.e and rippling sea Are darker than the grave to me;

For storms are lowering in that sky, And sad may be that fair land's doom; Full soon, perhaps, the battle-cry May wake the cannon's fearful boom, And shot and sh.e.l.l from o'er the waves May plow the rose's bed for graves.

And we, whose dear ones cl.u.s.ter there, We, mothers, who have let them go-- Our all, perhaps--how shall we bear That which another week may show?

The love which made our lives, all gone, Our hearts left desolate and lone!

Country! what to _me_ that name, Should I in vain demand my son?

Glory! what a nation's fame?

Home! home, without thee, I have none; Ah! stay--this Southern land not _mine_?

The land that e'en in death is thine!

A country's laurel-wreath for thee, A _hero's grave_--my own! my own!

And neither land nor home for _me_, Because a _mother's_ hope is gone?

Traitor I am! G.o.d's laws command That, NEXT TO HEAVEN, OUR NATIVE LAND!

And I will not retract--ah! no-- What, in my pride of home, I said, That, "_I would give my son to go Where'er our_ HERO RULER _led_!"

The mother's heart may burst--but still, Make it, O G.o.d, to know Thy will.

NEW ORLEANS, LA.

THE VOLUNTEERS TO THE "MELISH."

BY WM. C. ESTRES.

Come forth, ye gallant heroes, Rub up each rusty gun, And face these hireling Yankees, Who live by tap of drum.

We Volunteers are wearied, By a twelve months' "sojourn"; We want to rest a little, And then we'll fight "again."

We've won some five pitched battles, But will yield you our "posish"; And if you want some glory, Why pitch in now, "Melish."

Don't refuse to leave your spouses; Our own are just as dear, And each lonely little woman Longs for her Volunteer.

Don't mind your sobbing sweethearts; For though 'tis hard to part, We'll volunteer to cheer 'em, And console each troubled heart.

For the sake of old Virginia, Come and fight! _that's if you can_, And let your prattling babies Know their daddy was a man.

For you _we've_ fought and struggled; Had "no furloughs"--nary one-- We want a little resting, And so we're coming home.

Then _forward_, bold Militia!

"If you're coming, come along,"

Or, by the G.o.ds! we'll force you out To your duty--right or wrong.