“But what good came of it at last ?” "Why, that I cannot tell," said he ; "But 'twas a famous victory." ROBERT SOUTHEY. O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! (Abraham Lincoln, died April 15, 1865.) O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessei grim and daring : But O heart! heart! heart! ! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, O Captain my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head; It is some dream that on the deck You're fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will: The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won: Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. WALT WHITMAN ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC. "ALL quiet along the Potomac," they say, Except, now and then, a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping, While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleepFor their mother; may Heaven defend her! The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, Then, drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree, Yet onward he goes through the broad belt of light, Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves ? It looked like a rifle-"Ha! Mary, good-bye!" All quiet along the Potomac to-night, While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead--- ETHEL LYNN BEERS, INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP You know we French storm'd Ratisbon : A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms lock'd behind, As if to balance the prone brow, Oppressive with its mind. Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reach'd the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy, By just his horse's mane, a boy; You look'd twice ere you saw his breast "Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Ratisbon ! The Marshal's in the market-place, To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perch'd him!" The chief's eye flash'd; his plans Soar'd up again like fire. |