itu sable-draped banners, and slow measured tread,
The flower-laden ranks pass the gates of the dead;
And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests,
Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom on his breast.

Ended at last is the labor of love;
Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move-
A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief,
Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief;
Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child
Besought him in accents which grief rendered wild :
“Oh! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave-
Why! why I did you pass by my dear papa's grave?
I know he was poor, but as kind and as true
As ever marched into the battle with you
Ilis grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot,
You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not!
For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there,
And thought him too lowly your offerings to share.
He didn't die lowly-he poured his heart's blood,
In rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sod
Of the breastworks which stood in front of the fight-
And died shouting, 'Onward ! for God and the right!'
O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave,
But you haven't put one on my papa's grave.
If mamma were here—but she lies by his side,
Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa


1."; “ Battalion! file left! countermarch !" cried the chler, “This young orphan'd maid hath full cause for her grief.” Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street, lle lifted the maiden, while in through the gate The long line repasses, and many an eye Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh. "This way, it is-here, sir-right under this tree; They lie close together, with just room for me.” “Halt! Cover with roses each lowly green moundA love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground.” “Oh! thank you, kind sir! I ne'er can repay The kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day; But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live, 'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give.

I shall see papa soon, and dear mamma too-
I dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true;
And they will both bless you, I know, when I say
How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day-
How you cheered her sad heart, and soothed it to rest,
And bushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble breast;
And when the kind angels shall call you to come,
We'll welcome you there to our beautiful home,
Where death never comes, his black banners to wave,
And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave.”


The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from wbich we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open ; this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns ? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he mose loved—when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portals-would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness?

No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overw belming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved is softened away into pensive ineditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sa 'ness over the hour of gloom, yet who woulil exchange is even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn, even from the charms of the living. Oh, the gravel the grave! It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down, even upon the grave of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him ? But the

grave of those we loved, what a place for meditation! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of death, with all its stified griefs, its noiseless attendance, its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring love.l the feeble, fluttering, thrilling, -oh, how thrilling !-pressure of the band ! The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection. The last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of existence! Ay, go to the grave of buried love and meditate. There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being who can never, never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition.

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmer. ited pang to that true heart that now lies cold and still beneath thy feet ;—then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knock dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing And repentant in the grare, and utter the unheard groau, and pour the unavailing tear, more deep, more bitter, because unbeard and unavailing.

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living


It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived, whom you may know

By the name of Aunabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love, and be loved by me.

I was a child, and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea ;
But we loved with a love that was more than love,

I and my Annabel Lee-
With a love that the winged seraphıs of lezven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that lier high-born kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me,
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night

Chilling and killing my Anuabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than tho love

Of those who were older than we,

Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so all the night-time, I lie down by the side
Of my darling-my darling-my life and my bride,

In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.


'Tis a dozen or so of years ago,

Somewhere in the West countree,
That a nice girl lived, as ye loosiers know,

By the name of Deborah Lee.
Her sister was loved by Edgar Poe,

But Deborah by me.
Now I was green and she was green

As a summer's squash might be,
And we loved as warmly as other folka,

I and my Deborah Lee;
With a love that the lasses of Hoosierdon

Coveted her and me.
But somehow it happened long ago,

In the agueish West countree,
That a chill March morning gave the shakes

To my beautiful Deborah Lee,
And the grim steam doctor (hang him) cuma

And bore her away from me ;-
The doctor and deatlı, old partners they

In the agueish West countree.
The angels wanted her up in heaven,

But they never asked for me,
And that is the reason, I rather guess,

In the agueish West countree,

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