THE SOLDIER'S SWEETHEART. 297

THE SOLDIER'S SWEETHEART.

I

BY GEORGE W. BUNGAY.

GO down to the sea,

Where the waves speak to me

Of my darling, the soul of my soul
But her footprints no more

Mark the desolate shore,

Where she tempted the billows to roll.

There the sad billows break,

Like my heart for her sake, On the lonely and desolate shore; For the waves of the sea

Are now sighing with me,

For a mortal, now mortal no more.

With my heart filled with tears, And my hopes chilled with fears, By the grave of my darling I knelt; And I uttered a prayer

On the listening air,

Whose dew wept the sorrow I felt.

There the winds wove a shroud

Of a dim passing cloud,

298 THE SOLDIER'S SWEETHEART.

Betwixt me and the bright stars above;
And the form in its fold,

Like the shape under mould,
Was the form of the angel I love.

Would that I were a flower,

Born of sunshine and shower;
I would grow on the grave of the dead.
I would sweeten the air
With the perfume of prayer,
Till my soul on its incense had fled.

And I never would fade

In the delicate shade

Of the tree in whose shadow she lies.
There my petals should bloom,

By her white rural tomb,

When the stars closed their beautiful eyes.

Now I see her in dreams

On the banks of the streams,
In the dear land of exquisite bliss,
Where the sweep of her wings,
And the song that she sings,
Oft awake me to sadness in this.

THE RISING OF THE NORTH.

THE RISING OF THE NORTH.

HIGH on the mountains

A new day is dawning;

Over the eastern hills
Breaks the glad morning.

Up from the valleys.
Glad eyes are turning,

Full of the holy fires
In the heart burning.

Long was the night-watch,
Bitter with woe;

Dim burned the altar-fires,
Faintly and low.

Now, from the orient,

Leaps the new day,

Chasing the shadows

Of midnight away.

Freedom has risen,

And men shall once more

Gird on the armor

Their forefathers wore.

299

High on the mountains

The new day is dawning;

Soon in the valleys

Shall break the glad morning.
Cambridge, Mass.

J. N. M.

THE CAVALRY CHARGE.

301

Ο

THE CAVALRY CHARGE.

BY EDMUND C. STEDMAN.

UR good steeds snuff the evening air,
Our pulses with their purpose tingle;
The foeman's fires are twinkling there
He leaps to hear our sabres jingle!
HALT!

Each carbine sent its whizzing ball:
Now, cling clang! forward all,
Into the fight!

Dash on beneath the smoking dome:
Through level lightnings gallop nearer!
One look to Heaven! No thoughts of home:
The guidons that we bear are dearer.
CHARGE!

Cling! clang! forward all!

Heaven help those whose horses fall:
Cut left and right!

They flee before our fierce attack!

They fall! they spread in broken surges. Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, And leave the foeman to his dirges. WHEEL!