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What time it sways, on moonlit nights,
The murmuring tops of leafy trees;
And I will touch thy beauteous form
In June's red roses, rich and warm.

But thou thyself shalt come not down
From that pure region far above;
But keep thy throne and wear thy crown,
Queen of my heart and queen of love!
A monarch in thy realm complete,
And I a monarch at thy feet!

THE LAST SCENE.

HERE she lieth, white and chill;
Put your hand upon her brow:
Her sad heart is very still,

And she does not know you now.

Ah! the grave's a quiet bed:
She will sleep a pleasant sleep,

And the tears that you may shed

Will not wake her,

therefore weep!

Weep!-for you have wrought her woe;
Mourn she mourn'd and died for you:

Ah! too late we come to know

What is false and what is true.

RUE.

THE autumn wind is moaning in the leaves,
And the long grass is rustling on my grave:
Ah! would you have me think your heart now grieves
For her you would not save?

For I am dead: know you not I am dead?
Why will you haunt me in my grave to-night,
Standing above and listening overhead,

Where I am buried deep and out of sight?

Have you not wine and music, in your home,
And the fair form and eyes so pure and proud
With love of you? and wherefore do you come
To vex me, lying silent in my shroud?

Seek your new love! She calls you, and the tears Are warm on her pale face, and her young breast Is full of doubt and sorrow, for she hears

Low whisper'd words that startle her from rest. In from the night! the storm begins to stir. I will be near, and ghostly eyes shall see How you will kiss her lips, and say to her— "Thine always, love!" as once you said to me.

AFTER ALL.

THE apples are ripe in the orchard,
The work of the reaper is done,
And the golden woodlands redden
In the blood of the dying sun.

At the cottage-door the grandsire
Sits, pale, in his easy-chair,
While a gentle wind of twilight
Plays with his silver hair.

A woman is kneeling beside him ;
A fair young head is prest,
In the first wild passion of sorrow,
Against his aged breast.

And far from over the distance

The faltering echoes come,

Y

1862.

Of the flying blast of trumpet
And the rattling roll of drum.

Then the grandsire speaks, in a whisper,-
"The end no man can see;
But we give him to his country,
And we give our prayers to Thee."

The violets star the meadows,
The rose-buds fringe the door,
And over the grassy orchard
The pink-white blossoms pour.

But the grandsire's chair is empty,
The cottage is dark and still,

There's a nameless grave on the battle-field,
And a new one under the hill.

And a pallid, tearless woman
By the cold hearth sits alone;
And the old clock in the corner
Ticks on with a steady drone.

A RELIC.

I WOULD not give this little flower,
Wither'd and wasted though it be,
For the supremest bliss of power,
Or fortune's proudest pageantry.

For in this little flower I hold

A charm from every sin to save;
And when at last my heart is cold,
I trust to wear it in my grave.

BYRON FORCEYTHE WILLSON.

Born 1837-died 1867.

THE OLD SERGEANT.

(Jan. 1, 1863.)

THE Carrier cannot sing to-day the ballads

With which he used to go,

Rhyming the glad rounds of the happy New Years
That are now beneath the snow:

For the same awful and portentous Shadow,
That overcast the earth

And smote the land last year with desolation,

Still darkens every

hearth.

And the Carrier hears Beethoven's mighty death-march Come up from every mart;

And he hears and feels it breathing in his bosom,

And beating in his heart.

And to-day, a scarr'd and weather-beaten veteran,
Again he comes along,

To tell the story of the Old Year's struggles
In another New Year's song.

And the song is his, but not so with the story;
For the story, you must know,

Was told in prose to Assistant-Surgeon Austin.

By a soldier of Shiloh:

By Robert Burton, who was brought up on the Adams, With his death-wound in his side;

And who told the story to the Assistant-Surgeon,

On the same night that he died.

But the singer feels it will better suit the ballad,
If all should deem it right,

To tell the story as if what it speaks of

Had happen'd but last night.

"Come a little nearer, Doctor!-thank you, let me take

the cup:

Draw your chair up,-draw it closer,-just another little sup!

May-be you may think I'm better; but I'm pretty well used up,

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Doctor! you've done all you could do, but I'm just a going up!

Feel my pulse, sir! if you want to, but it ain't much use to try "

"Never say that!" said the Surgeon, as he smother'd down a sigh;

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'It will never do, old comrade! for a soldier to say die!” What you say will make no difference, Doctor! when you come to die."

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"Doctor! what has been the matter?"

faint, they say;

"You were very

You must try to get to sleep now."-"Doctor! have I been

away!"

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"Not that anybody knows of!"

to stay!

"Doctor-Doctor! please

There is something I must tell you, and you won't have long to stay!

"I have got my marching orders, and I'm ready now to

go;

Doctor, did you say I fainted?-but it couldn't ha' been

So,

For as sure as I'm a Sergeant, and was wounded at Shiloh, I've this very night been back there, on the old field of

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Shiloh !

This is all that I remember.-The last time the Lighter

came,

And the lights had all been lower'd, and the noises much

the same,

He had not been gone five minutes before something call'd my name:

'ORDERLY SERGEANT ROBERT BURTON!'-just that way it call'd my name.

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