With foam and with dust the black charger was

gray;

By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play
He seem'd to the whole great army to say,
"I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester down, to save the day."

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan !

Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!
And when their statues are placed on high,
Under the dome of the Union sky,
The American soldier's Temple of Fame,
There with the glorious general's name
Be it said, in letters both bold and bright:
"Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester-twenty miles away!"

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

A SOUTH CAROLINA BOURBON-AET. 79.

RIDICULOUS to some may seem
This relic of the old régime,
So rudely wakened from his dream
Of high ambition.

A heart of nature's noblest mould,
By honor tempered and controlled;
Oh, look not in a soul so bold

For mock contrition.

For when the die of war was cast,

And through the land the bugle blast
Called all to arms from first to last
For Carolina;

Careless of what might be his fate
He gave his all to save the State:
He thought, thinks now (strange to relate)
No cause diviner.

Of name and lineage proud, he bore
The character 'mongst rich and poor,
Which marks now, as in days of yore,
The Huguenot.

Two hundred slaves were in his train,
Six thousand acres' broad domain-
(His ancestors in fair Touraine

Had no such lot.)

He feared and worshipped God, and then Women, for whom, with tongue and pen, He used all safeguards in his ken

Without pretence.

Fearless of men as old John Knox,
He practised customs heterodox,
Believing duels women's rocks
Of strong defence.

He loved and wooed in early days;
She died. And he her memory pays
The highest tribute. For with ways
And views extreme,

He, 'gainst stern facts and common sense,
To the whole sex (to all intents)
Transferred the love and reverence
Of life's young dream.

Perhaps too easy life he led ;

Four hours a-field and ten a-bed,
His other times he talked and read,
Or else made merry,

With many planter friend to dine,
His health to drink in fine old wine,
Madeira which thrice crossed the line,
And Gold-leaf Sherry.

And here was mooted many a day,
The question on which each gourmet
Throughout the Parish had his say;
Which is the best

Santee, or Cooper River, bream?
Alas! the evening star grew dim,
'Ere any guest agreed with him,

The war rolled on, and many a friend
And kinsman whom he helped to send
Our home and country to defend,

Home ne'er returned.

What harder lot could now befall!

Threats could not bend nor woes appall, Unmoved, he saw his father's hall

To ashes burned,

And now to live within his means
He dons his grey Kentucky Jeans;
(His dress in other times and scenes
Was drap d'été).

His hat is much the worse for wear,
His shoes revamped from year to year ;
For calf-skin boots are all too dear,
We hear him say.

So life drags on as in a trance;
No emigré of stricken France,
No Jacobite of old romance
Of sterner mould.

His fortune gone, his rights denied,
For him the Federal Union died
When o'er Virginia's line the tide
Of battle rolled.

*

*

"Loyal je serai durant ma vie ;

So runs his motto, and naught cares he
For the Nation that rules o'er land and sea
And tops the world.

Under the shadow he lives and waits

'Till the angels open the pearly gates,

For his hopes went down with the Southern States

And the flag that's furled.

YATES SNOWDEN.

THE SONG OF THE CAMP. "GIVE us a song!" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay grim and threatening under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belch'd its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said :

We storm the forts to-morrow;

Sing while we may, another day

Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon:

Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame ;
Forgot was Britain's glory :

Each heart recall'd a different name,
But all sang "Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song,

Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,

Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
But as the song grew louder,