And I knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft so bright; For it shone like solid sunshine; and a winding stair of light Wound around it and around it till it wound clean out of sight! “And, behold, as I approached it — with a rapt and dazzled stare, Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending the great Stair, Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of - Halt, and who goes there!' 'I'm a friend,' I said, 'if you are.' • Then advance, sir, to the Stair!' "I advanced! That sentry, Doctor, was Elijah Ballantyne! First of all to fall on Monday, after we had formed the line! 'Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome! Welcome by that countersign! And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak of mine! As he grasped my hand, I shuddered, thinking only of the grave; But he smiled and pointed upward with a bright and bloodless glaive: 'That's the way, sir, to Head-quarters.' • What Head-quarters?' 'Of the Brave.' 'But the great Tower?' 'That was builded of the great deeds of the Brave!' "Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform of light; At my own so old and battered, and at his so new and bright; 'Ab!' said he, 'you have forgotten the new uniform to-night, Hurry back, for you must be here at just twelve o'clock to-night!' “And the next thing I remember, you were sitting there, and I Doctor did you hear a footstep? Hark! - God bless you all! Good-by! Doctor, please to give my musket and my knapsack, when I die, To my son - my son that's coming, he won't get here till I die! "Tell him his old father blessed him as he never And to carry that old musket" Hark! a knock is at the door! "Till the Union " See! it opens ! "Father! Father! speak once more!" "Bless you! gasped the old, gray Sergeant. And he lay and said no more! FORCEYTHE WILLSON.1 1 FORCEYTHE WILLSON was born in Little Genesee, New York, in 1837, and died in Alfred, New York, in 1867 His fame rests wholly on this poem. THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, before us, On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, And loud, amid the universal clamor, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, Were half the power that fills the world with terror, The warrior's name would be a name abhorrèd! Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace! Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. BEFORE SEDAN. HERE, in this leafy place, Cold, with his sightless face Turned to the skies; 'Tis but another dead; All you can say is said. Carry his body hence, Kings must have slaves; What was the white you touched, There, at his side? Paper his hand had clutched Tight ere he died; Message or wish, may be; Hardly the worst of us Here could have smiled! Only the tremulous Words of a child, Prattle, that has for stops Just a few ruddy drops. Look She is sad to miss, Morning and night, His her dead father's-kiss; Tries to be bright, |