THE FIRST FIRE.

Asleep; the laureate-lark of Day

At home some even in June;
Dear humble fancies of the heart,
When Art was Love in love with Art!

Blithe dance the flames and blest are we !
Without, the funeral of the year
Is preached by every mounful tree:
The tree in blossom here

Knows no lost leaves, no farewell wing-
In vain will Autumn preach to Spring!

The cricket sings. Its song? You know,
Warm prophecies of dearest days,
(Horizons lost, of long ago,

Crumble within the blaze!)

Of nights a-glow with light that blesses,
And wine from Home's enchanted presses.

The cricket sings, and, as I dream,

Your face shows tender smile and tear,
What angels of the hearth a-gleam,
Wingless, have lighted here?
Sing, cricket, sing of these to-night;
The first fire of our home is bright!

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THE SOLDIER'S DEATH.

THE SOLDIER'S DEATH.

BY NANCY A. W. PRIEST.

THEY bore him to a cool and grassy place,

So motionless they almost deemed him dead, And fanned with tender care the pallid face, And with pure water bathed his drooping head, Till his eyes opened, and a languid smile

Played round his dying lips; and when he spoke, They hushed their very breath to listen, while That low, faint murmur on the calm air broke.

"Comrades, my waning life is almost fled;

Death's dampness gathers on my brow and cheek, And from this gaping wound the bullet made, The crimson life-blood oozes while I speak.

I shall be resting quietly, ere long,

And shall not need your love and tender care; Your hearts are valiant and your arms are strong, Go back, my comrades, you are needed there.

"But bear me first to yonder grassy sod,

Whence I can turn my eyes upon the fight; Gently there. Leave me now alone with God, And go you back to battle for the right."

THE SOLDIER'S DEATH.

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Then his mind wandered; and the beating drum,
The roar of cannon and the din of strife,
Changed to familiar, far-off sounds of home,
Or sweet, low tones of mother, child, or wife.

And the receding battle's frequent shocks,

Softened by distance, coming on the breeze, Seemed to him like the bleating of the flocks, Or hiveward murmur of the laden bees; Until there came a mighty shout at length,

A cry that rose and swelled to "victory," And, opening his dim eyes with sudden strength, He saw the foeman's ranks divide, and fly.

He rose,

- he sat erect in his own blood;

His heart throbbed joyfully as when a boy;
"They fly, they fly!" he cried, and up to God
His spirit passed on that last shout of joy.
And so they found him when they sought him there,
Lifeless and cold in that secluded place,·

The rigid fingers clasped as if in prayer,
And that last smile of triumph on his face.

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AFTER THE VICTORIES.

HA

AFTER THE VICTORIES.

BY HOWARD GLYNDON.

A! the wine-press of pain hath been trodden!
And suffering's meed mantles high, –

The perfect, rare wine, wrought of patience,
It moveth aright to the eye!

Oh! dark was the night while we trampled
Its death-purple grapes under foot;
And no song parted silence from darkness,
For Liberty's sibyl was mute!

And the fiends of the lowest were loosened,
To persecute Truth at their will!
They spat on her white shining forehead,
She standing unmoved and still!
The hiss of the white-blooded coward,
The vile breath of Calumny's brood,
Befouled and bedarkened the Kingdom,
And poisoned the place where we stood!

We-treading the ripe grapes asunder,
With failing and overworked feet;
Alone in the terrible darkness

Alone in the stifling heat

With agony-drops raining over

AFTER THE VICTORIES

Our weak hands from desolate brows; With a deadlier pain in our spirits,

O'er whose failure no promise arose !

Shook the innermost being of justice,
Stirred the innermost pulse of our God;
With a cry of remonstrance whose anguish
Frighted devils and saints from its road!
All the pain of a long-martyred nation,-
All its giant-heart's overtasked strength, -
In one Samson-like throe were unfettered,
Standing up for a hearing at length !

And

even as we fell in the darkness Falling down, with our mouths in the dust; With toil-stained and redly-dyed garments

That betokened us true to our trust,
When the laugh of the scoffer was loudest,
And the clapping of cowardly hands,
A glory blazed out from the Westward,
That startled the far distant lands!

Ha! the wine-press of pain hath been trodden !
Now summon the laborers forth!

Let them come in their redly-dyed garments,
The lion-browed sons of the North!

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