TO MY CHILDREN.

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TO MY CHILDREN.

BY A SOLDIER IN THE ARMY.

DARLINGS

I am weary pining:

Shadows fall across my way;

I can hardly see the lining

Breaking hearts, in anguish crying
For the lost ones for the dying,
Sobbing anguish of despair.

I am weary of the fighting:
Brothers, red with brother's gore.
Only, that the wrong we're righting,
Truth and Honor's battle fighting,
I would draw my sword no more.

I am pining, dearest, pining,
For your kisses on my cheek;

For your dear arms round me twining;
For your soft eyes on me shining;

For your lov'd words; darlings — speak!

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THE REFUGEE.

Tell me, in your earnest prattle,
Of the olive branch and dove;
Call me from the cannon's rattle;
Take my thoughts away from battle;
Fold me in your dearest love.

Darlings I am weary pining:
Shadows fall across my way;

I can hardly see the lining

Of the clouds the silver lining,
Turning darkness into day.

THE REFUGEE.

BY SAMUEL ECKEL, OF EAST TENNESSEE.

LONE upon the mountain summit,
Watching through the weary night,
For the cheering heart-glow glimmer
Of the Union camp-fire's light;

Starting at the slighest rustle

In the leaves above my head;

Seeing foes in every shadow,

While the morning light I dread;

THE REFUGEE.

In the distance, far below me,
Tented foes I dimly trace;
The oppressors of my children,
And the tyrants of my race.

I am black, — I sadly know it,
And for that I am a slave;

But I have a soul within me

That will live beyond the grave.

Oft at noon, when I've been sitting
'Neath some shady orange tree,
Every breeze would whisper to me
That I must, I would be free.

Sadly I have mourned for freedom,
But its breath I never drew;
Sadly mourn I for my children,
They, alas! are chattels too.

Look! the morning dawns upon me;
In the distant vale afar,

I behold a banner floating,
I can see each stripe and star.

There I'll go and seek protection ;
And I ask, O God, of Thee,

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THE FIRST FIRE,

That my cherished prayer be granted :
Make oppressed bondmen free!

THE FIRST FIRE.

BY JOHN J. PIATT.

DEAREST, to-night upon our hearth

See the first fire of Autumn leap,
The first that we with festal mirth
For loving Memory keep.

Sweet Fairy of the Fireside, come
And guard our altar-flame of Home!

Without, October breathes the night,

Cold dews below, cold stars on high; The chilly cricket sees our light Reach welcoming arms a-nigh, And sighs to sing his evening song Upon our hearth the winter long.

Blithe cricket! welcome, singing, here! I half recall dead Autumn's cold, Half-close my eyes to dream, my dear, Their sadness vague and old :

THE FIRST FIRE.

The Fireside Fairy laughs and tries
With bursting sparks to shell my eyes!

Ill-timed the gay conceit, I know:

On the dark hills that near us lie,
(The Real will not, need not go,)
Beneath the Autumnal sky
Stand battle-tents that everywhere
Keep ghostly white the moonless air.

The sentinel walks his lonely beat,
The soldier slumbers on the ground;
To one, hearth-glimmers far are sweet,
One dreams of fireside sound!

From unforgotten doors they reach,

Dear sympathies, more dear than speech.

I think of all the homeless woe,

The battle-winter long;

Alas, the world

the hearth's a-glow!

And lo, the cricket's song

Within the Fairy's minstrel sings
Away the ghosts of saddest things!

The fire-smile keeps our walls in bloom;
Home's summer-light a flower, I deem;
And look, the pictures in the room,

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