A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out. Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. BY F. M. FINCH. [FRANCIS MILES FINCH, an American poet, was born at Ithaca, N.Y., June 9, 1827. A graduate of Yale College, he was for some time a lawyer in Ithaca and in recent years has been dean of the Cornell University Law School. He is the author of the well-known lyrics, "Nathan Hale" and "The Blue and the Gray."] The women of Columbus, Mississippi, animated by noble sentiments, have shown themselves impartial in their offerings made to the memory of the dead. They strewed flowers alike on the graves of Confederate and of National soldiers. By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave grass quiver, Under the other, the gray. These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, Under the willow, the gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours, Lovingly laden with flowers, Alike for the friend and the foe: - Waiting the judgment day; So, with an equal splendor, Waiting the judgment day; So, when the summer calleth, Wet with the rain, the gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, Under the sod and the dew, Under the garlands, the gray. No more shall the war cry sever, When they laurel the graves of our dead! Waiting the judgment day; Tears and love for the gray. THE PLACE WHERE MAN SHOULD DIE. BY MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY. How little recks it where men lie, Has looked on earth its last, Back to its mother's breast! Death is a common friend or foe, But when the spirit, free and warm, What matter where the lifeless form The soldier falls 'mid corses piled Upon the battle plain, Where reinless war steeds gallop wild Above the mangled slain; But though his corse be grim to see, What recks it, when the spirit free The coward's dying eyes may close And softest hands his limbs compose, Or garments o'er them spread. "Twere sweet, indeed, to close our eyes, And, wafted upwards by their sighs, But whether on the scaffold high, Or in the battle's van, The fittest place where man can die Is where he dies for man! |