And smiled to think the babe was warm:
With one cold kiss, one tear she shed,
And sank upon a snowy bed.

At dawn a traveler passed by,

And saw her 'neath a snowy veil-
The frost of death was on her eye,

Her cheek was hard, and cold, and pale:
He moved the robe from off the child-
The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled.

THE ENSIGN BEARER.

Never mind me, Uncle Jared! never mind my bleeding breast!

They are charging in the valley and you're needed with the rest.

All the day long from its dawning till you saw your kinsman fall,

You have answered fresh and fearless to our brave commander's call;

And I would not rob my country of your gallant aid to-night, Though your presence and your pity stay my spirit in its flight.

All along that quivering column see the death steed trampling down

Men whose deeds this day are worthy of a kingdom and a

crown.

Prithee hasten, Uncle Jared! what's the bullet in my breast To that murderous storm of fire raining tortures on the rest? See! the bayonets flash and falter-look! the foe begins to win;

See! oh, see our falling comrades! God! the ranks are clos ing in.

Hark! there's quickening in the distance and a thundering in the air,

Like the roaring of a lion just emerging from his lair.

There's a cloud of something yonder fast unrolling like a scroll

Quick! oh, quick! if it be succor that can save the cause a soul!

Look! a thousand thirsty bayonets are flashing down the

vale,

And a thousand thirsty riders dashing onward like a gale!

Raise me higher, Uncle Jared, place the ensign in my hand! I am strong enough to float it while you cheer that flying band;

Louder! louder! shout for Freedom with prolonged and vigorous breath—

Shout for Liberty and Union, and the victory over death!See! they catch the stirring numbers and they swell them to the breeze

Cap and plume and starry banner waving proudly through the trees.

Mark our fainting comrades rally, see that drooping column rise!

I can almost see the fire newly kindled in their eyes. Fresh for conflict, nerved to conquer, see them charging on the foe

Face to face with deadly meaning-shot and shell and trusty blow.

See the thinned ranks wildly breaking-see them scatter to the sun

I can die now, Uncle Jared, for the glorious day is won!

But there's something, something pressing with a numbness on my heart,

And my lips with mortal dumbness fail the burden to impart.

Oh! I tell you, Uncle Jared, there is something back of all That a soldier cannot part with when he heeds his country's call.

Ask the mother what, in dying, sends her yearning spirit

back

Over life's rough, broken marches, where she's pointed out the track.

Ask the dear ones gathered nightly round the shining house

hold hearth,

What to them is dearer, better, than the brightest things of earth.

Ask that dearer one whose loving, like a ceaseless vestal flame,

Sets my very soul a glowing at the mention of her name; Ask her why the loved in dying feels her spirit linked with

his

In a union death but strengthens, she will tell you what it is.

And there's something, Uncle Jared, you may tell her if you will

That the precious flag she gave me, I have kept unsullied still.

And-this touch of pride forgive me-where death sought our gallant host

Where our stricken lines were weakest, there it ever waved the most.

Bear it back and tell her fondly, brighter, purer, steadier far, 'Mid the crimson tide of battle, shone my life's fast setting

star.

But forbear, dear Uncle Jared, when there's something more to tell,

When her lips with rapid blanching, bid you answer how I fell;

Teach your tongue the trick of slighting, though 'tis faithful to the rest,

Lest it say her brother's bullet is the bullet in my breast; But if it must be that she learn it despite your tenderest care, "Twill soothe her bleeding heart to know my bayonet pricked the air.

Life is ebbing, Uncle Jared-my enlistment endeth here; Death, the Conqueror has drafted-I can no more volunteer,

But I hear the roll-call yonder and I go with willing feetThrough the shadows of the valley where victorious armies meet.

Raise the ensign, Uncle Jared! let it's dear folds o'er me fall

Strength and Union for my country-and God's banner over all.

EVA'S DEATH.-H. B. STOWE.

Eva, after this, declined rapidly: there was no more any doubt of the event; the fondest hope could not be blinded. Her beautiful room was avowedly a sick-room; and Miss Ophelia, day and night, performed the duties of a nurse, and never did her friends appreciate her value more than in that capacity. With so well-trained a hand and eye, such perfect adroitness and practice in every art which could promote neatness and comfort and keep out of sight every disagreeable incident of sickness,-with such a perfect sense of time, such a clear, untroubled head, such exact accuracy in remembering every prescription and direction of the doc

tors, she was everything to St. Clare. They who had shrugged their shoulders at the little peculiarities and setnesses— so unlike the careless freedom of Southern manners-acknowledged that now she was thẻ exact person that was wanted.

Uncle Tom was much in Eva's room. The child suffered much from nervous restlessness, and it was a relief to her to be carried; and it was Tom's greatest delight to carry her little frail form in his arms, resting on a pillow, now up and down her room, now out into the veranda; and when the fresh sea-breezes blew from the lake,-and the child felt freshest in the morning,—he would sometimes walk with her under the orange-trees in the garden, or sitting down in some of their old seats, sing to her their favorite old hymns. Her father often did the same thing; but his frame was slighter, and when he was weary, Eva would say to him,—

"Oh, papa, let Tom take me. Poor fellow! it pleases him; and you know it's all he can do now, and he wants to do something!"

"So do I, Eva!" said her father.

“Well, papa, you can do everything, and are everything to me. You read to me,-you sit up nights; and Tom has only this one thing, and his singing; and I know, too, he does it easier than you can. He carries me so strong!"

The desire to do something was not confined to Tom. Every servant in the establishment showed the same feeling, and in their way did what they could. But the friend who knew most of Eva's own imaginings and foreshadowings was her faithful bearer, Tom. To him.she said what she would not disturb her father by saying. To him she imparted those mysterious intimations which the soul feels as the cords begin to unbind ere it leaves its clay forever.

Tom, at last, would not sleep in his room, but lay all night in the outer veranda, ready to rouse at every call.

"Uncle Tom, what alive have you taken to sleeping anywhere and everywhere, like a dog, for?" said Miss Ophelia. "I thought you was one of the orderly sort that liked to lie in bed in a Christian way."

"I do, Miss Feely," said Tom, mysteriously. "I do; but

now-"

"Well, what now?"

"We mustn't speak loud; Mas'r St. Clare won't hear on't; but Miss Feely, you know there must be somebody watchin' for the bridegroom."

"What do you mean, Tom?"

"You know it says in Scripture, 'At midnight there was

That's

a great cry made. Behold the bridegroom cometh.' what I'm spectin' now, every night, Miss Feely; and I couldn't sleep out o' hearin', no ways."

"Why, Uncle Tom, what makes you think so?"

66 Miss Eva she talks to me. The Lord, He sends his messenger in the soul. I must be thar, Miss Feely; for when that ar blessed child goes into the kingdom they'll open the door so wide, we'll all get a look in at the glory, Miss Feely." "Uncle Tom, did Miss Eva say she felt more unwell than asual, to-night?"

"No; but she telled me this morning she was comin' nearer-thar's them that tells it to the child, Miss Feely. It's the angels, 'it's the trumpet sound afore the break o' day,"" said Tom, quoting from a favorite hymn.

This dialogue passed between Miss Ophelia and Tom, between ten and eleven, one evening, after her arrangements had all been made for the night, when on going to bolt her outer door, she found Tom stretched along by it, in the outer veranda.

She was not nervous or impressible; but the solemn, heartfelt manner struck her. Eva had been unusually bright and cheerful that afternoon, and had sat raised in her bed, and looked over all her little trinkets and precious things, and designated the friends to whom she would have them given; and her manner was more animated, and her voice more natural, than they had known it for weeks. Her father had been in, in the evening, and had said that Eva appeared more like her former self than ever she had done since her sickness; and when he kissed her for the night, he said to Miss Ophelia, "Cousin, we may keep her with us after all: she is certainly better;" and he had retired with a lighter heart in his bosom than he had had there for weeks.

But at midnight,-strange, mystic hour!-when the veil