Imagine their skirts 'mong artillery wheels, And watch for their flutter as they flee 'cross the field
When the charge is rammed home and the fire belches hot;
They never will wait for the answering shot. They would faint at the first drop of blood in their sight,
What fun for us boys,-(ere we enter the fight);
They might pick some lint, and tear up some sheets,
And make us some jellies, and send on their
sweets,
And knit some soft socks for Uncle Sam's shoes,
And write us some letters, and tell us the news.
And thus it was settled, by common consent,
That husbands, or brothers, or whoever went,
That the place for the women was in their own
homes,
There to patiently wait until victory comes.
But later it chanced-just how, no one knew—
That the lines slipped a bit, and some 'gan to
And they went,—where did they go?-Ah! where did they not?
Show us the battle, the field, or the spot
Where the groans of the wounded rang out on the air
That her ear caught it not, and her hand was not there;
Who wiped the death sweat from the cold, clammy brow,
And sent home the message:-"Tis well with him now;"
Who watched in the tents whilst the fever fires burned,
And the pain tossing limbs in agony turned; Who wet the parched tongue, calmed delirium's strife
Till the dying lips murmured, "My mother,' wife."
And who were they all?-They were many, my
Their records were kept by no tabular pen:
They exist in traditions from father to son,
Who recalls, in dim memory, now here and there
A few names were writ, and by chance live to-day;
But's a perishing record, fast fading away.
Of those we recall, there are scarcely a score;
Dix, Dame, Bickerdyke, Edson, Harvey and
Moore,
Fales, Wittenmeyer, Gilson, Safford and Lee,
And poor Cutter dead in the sands of the sea;
And Frances D. Gage, our "Aunt Fanny" of old,
Whose voice rang for freedom when freedom was
sold.
And Husband, and Etheridge, and Harlan and
Case,
Livermore, Alcott, Hancock and Chase,
And Turner, and Hawley, and Potter and Hall.
Ah! the list grows apace, as they come at the call.
Did these women quail at the sight of a gun?
Will some soldier tell us of one he saw run?
Will he glance at the boats on the great western
flood,
At Pittsburg and Shiloh, did they faint at the blood?
And the brave wife of Grant stood there with them
And her calm stately presence gave strength to his
And Marie of Logan: she went with them too;
A bride, scarcely more than a sweetheart, 'tis true.
Her young cheek grows pale when the bold troop-
ers ride.
Where the "Black Eagle" soars, she is close at his side;
She staunches his blood, cools his fever-burnt breath,
And the wave of her hand stays the Angel of
She nurses him back, and restores once again To both army and state the great leader of men.
She has smoothed his black plumes and laid them to sleep,
Whilst the angels above them their high vigils keep:
And she sits here alone, with the snow on her brow
Your cheers for her, Comrades! Three cheers for her now.
And these were the women who went to the war:
The women of question; what did they go for?
Because in their hearts God had planted the seed
Of pity for woe, and help for its need;
They saw, in high purpose, a duty to do,
And the armor of right broke the barriers through.
Uninvited, unaided, unsanctioned ofttimes,
With pass, or without it, they pressed on the lines;
They pressed, they implored, 'till they ran the
lines through,
And that was the "running" the men saw them do.
'Twas a hampered work, its worth largely lost;
'Twas hindrance, and pain, and effort, and cost;
But through these came knowledge,-knowledge
is power,-
And never again in the deadliest hour
Of war or of peace shall we be so beset
To accomplish the purpose our spirits have met.
And what would they do if war came again?
The scarlet cross floats where all was blank then.
They wound bind on their "brassards" and march
And the man liveth not who could say to them nay; They would stand with you now, as they stood with you then,—
The nurses, consolers, and saviors of men.
HARK! I hear the tramp of thousands,
And of armed men the hum;
Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered
Round the quick-alarming drum—
Saying: "Come,
Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quickalarming drum.
"Let me of my heart take counsel:
War is not of life the sum;
Who shall stay and reap the harvest When the autumn days shall come?" But the drum
Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn-sounding drum.
"But when won the coming battle, What of profit springs therefrom?
What if conquest, subjugation,
Even greater ills become?"
But the drum
Answered: "Come!
You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee-answering drum.
"What if, 'mid the cannon's thunder,
Whistling shot and bursting bomb,
When my brothers fall around me,
Should my heart grow cold and numb?"
But the drum
Better there in death united than in life a recreant-Come!"
Thus they answered-hoping, fearing,
Some in faith and doubting some,
Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming,
Said: "My chosen people, come!"
Then the drum
Lo! was dumb;
For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered: "Lord, we come!"
THE morning May-beams lean'd on Hilda's brows,
Her low broad brows, and kist the serpent-coil
Of fulvous hair that loosen'd from the mass,
Slid down upon her shoulder gleaming white,
And, like a tawny snake with glists of gold,
Across her bosom trail'd its silken length,
And with her breathing gently rose and fell.
The vagrant fastenings of her sleeping robe
Had dropt and left her pearly throat unclaspt,
And all her beauty veilless to the sun.
The martins building underneath the eaves
Looked in and twitter'd to her at their work;
Her sparrows chatter'd on her window's sill
And, chirping, call'd her, waiting for their crumbs.
The trailing creeper tapp'd her window-pane,
All Spring's sweet sounds rose up to her; but she
Still slept, and dream'd and heard them not. Her
head
Soft-pillowed on one arm, her other arm
In sleep's abandonment flung lightly on
The broider'd cover of her bed.
O rest in sleep! how good a thing art thou!
O morning-sleep! alas, it must be said,
She loved to wrap herself within its folds,
To doze in drowsy, dreamy somnolence;
And so, this morn, a willing slave in bonds
And chains of poppy filaments, she lay.
And sweet in sensory-cells her visions seem'd,
For smiles, like ripples on a sunny lake,
Moved, chasing each across her face.
As when a rough wind wakes the sleeping sea,
A change comes o'er the motion of her dream.
She trembles, moves her hands, and starts with
fear.
The hag-of-night, on her distemper'd mare,
Unfrighted by the crocus-light of morn,
Rides through the mystic passes of her brain.
The terror holds her now: black shadows move
Athwart the mirror of her dream: a dream
Most horrible. She all her life, till now,
Had only dreamt of Love and pleasant things-
Its blackness weighs on her insomnious soul;
A blackness as of midnight on a moor
Moonless and starless howling for the light;
Again, the outer blackness of a vault,
Shut from all light, whose walls of dead men's bones
Closed on her heavy breath.
Alas! that she
Should suffer anguish even in a dream.
She was so sweet, so like a merry song
That trips in notes of laughter all its way;
The light heart of a careless child had she,
And bore her weight of wifehood like a flower
That gave but added color to her charms:
All petty household dues she brush'd away
As they were thistle-down.
Now, in her dream The darkness lifts, and small white bands move past.
Fray'd, tattered shapes of things, she knew not what.
She looks, and in a creeping mist she sees,
Far off, a pale-blue light, and in its rays-
As 'twere a living thing-a coffin looms:
And reeling, swaying, nearer, nearer still,
And nearer yet, it stays beside her bed.
Cold horror seizes her, her blood grows chill,
She cannot screem, she can but stare, and see
The husband of her love in grave-clothes clad,
In coffin standing upright by her side;
His eyes with life's last look fix'd stonily
On her; the long white arms, the fingers pale
And shrivell'd of the dead, outstretch'd at her;
The blue lips moving, giving forth no sound,
Yet seemingly to thought-upbraiding her.
She clasps her troubled hands, she gasps for breath,
She moans with anguish in her awful sleep.
Clouds fill the chamber; now a wide expanse
Before her eyes. From out the coffin glides
The corpse, thrice waves his wan weird arms, and lo!
With noiseless tread lean dancing shapes appear,
Strange things to sight, like toeless human feet
Divorced from parent limbs with horrid knife,
Or wrench'd apart: each ghostly foot with rents
And deep-mouth'd cuts disfigured.
To the right,
Grim sallow forms steal on like human legs,
Faint legs without their feet, a gruesome crew:
And as they dance before her wilder'd eyes
A lurid light gleams through their rended skins;
Some limbs dance by in groups, but here and there
A single limb 'mid others madly whirls.
They pause; again the pale corpse waves his arms;
Forms more uncouth, more ghostly, cluster in,
Sweeping with gliding motion past her eyes;
Blanch'd human bodies without heads or legs,
They join the dance, they wildly toss their arms,
Their handless arms, and ever point at her
Their jagged wrists, while charnel lights illume
Their gaping wounds and lacerated fronts.
And now amidst that spectral company,
From misty heights, on every side, descends
As thick as hail a shower of human hands;
Around they float upon the sulphurous air,
Upborne though wingless, hands without their
Pointing their fingers as in scorn at her;
Some rough and swollen look, and others soft
And delicately fair-disfigured all;
Some lack a finger, some a thumb, and some
Have riven sides, and open'd palms, whose digits-
Quivering held by little strips of skin-
All nailless, dangle from the parent hand. `
Again the man waves his arms; and from
Each wrist and headless trunk grow toeless feet,
While grisly hands peep from each sever'd leg.
A scream born of her agony escapes;
The dance is stay'd; the pallid forms repose;
The clouds and mists disperse; the scene contracts
To four known walls, and in those phantoms grim
She sees, she sees-O joy!-her husband's socks,
His hose, his pants, his vests, his well-worn shirts,
His long white ties, his limp Geneva bands,
His many sorts of gloves-all buttonless,
All torn, and rent, and slash'd, and ript, and fray'd,
Unsewn, undarn'd, unmended, full of holes!
The coffin disappears. The glow of life Returns to that cold corpse. One long drawn sigh . . . . She wakes.
Her husband-he is standing there-
The Vicar of the Parish, best of men,
Alive and well!
"My Hilda, love, these ties!
I've not a neckerchief that isn't fray'd.
And this, and this, and these, just look at that!
The Bishop, love! His Lordship comes to-day.
So glad you've had a sweet refreshing sleep;
But see-this collar, love! I can't be seen
Like this. The Bishop, dear! Now do get up,
My darling, just for once, and sew a button on!"
W. WILSY MARTIN
FOUR rounded centuries have rolled Upon Time's ceaseless flood, Since hero brave and seaman bold,
Led by a thought from God, Sailed out upon the boundless main Across a trackless sea. And first beheld our favored land, The Home of Liberty.
To-day, a nation wondrous fair
Is basking 'neath the sun;
In scarlet, gold and purple rare,
Her robes she hath put on
To celebrate in rich estate,
With heart and form aglow,
The landing of that hero great
Four hundred years ago.
When 'merging from the billows high,
The welcome shore appeared,
With shouts that echoed from the sky,
Those toilworn seamen cheered;
Could anthems backward roll to-day,
The corridors of Time
Would ring with praises, all the way
In tribute mete, sublime.
But ah! the dead may never hear
The praises that we sing;
The pulseless heart receives no cheer
From offerings we bring;
Though bronze, or marble mountain high
We rear above the breast,
It wakens neither smile nor sigh
From those laid low in rest.
Our cities grand they may not see-
Our garden land abloom;-
Awakes our finest pageantry
No echo from the tomb.
Then lower banners at half-mast,
Once on the march to-day,
In honor of the heroes past
In silence laid away.
Then, while the gathered hosts rejoice,
Rallied from sea to sea-
When martial band and thrilling voice
Swell triumphs of the free,
With hearts subdued, in gratitude
Let us adore the Giver,
Who led Columbus o'er the flood
And watches o'er us ever.
Then hail! to fair Columbia-
Her heroes passed away;
And hail! to our Columbia
With heroes of to-day.
By truest, noblest living, may
Her sons and daughters show
Best honor to her natal day
Four hundred years ago.
WHAT,-Barrett dead? How soon life's play is o'er!
It seems but yesternight I saw him last; And now he to the dim Unknown has passed, A stately ghost upon a ghostly shore! You who have felt the warm clasp of his hand, Or, bending low, received his last good-bye, Ah! but our hearts your grief can understand, Though the gods will that earth-born man should
"Ave et vale!" is our despairing cry;
And the dark curtain falls upon the scene. Never again, O Elk with kingly mein,
Shall we behold the splendor of thine eye! But to thy shade I raise this glass of mine; Pledge me, my brother! in death's dregless wine. ROBERT Rexdale.
"Too commonplace!" the critic hath averred. "Brings no high thought which with us wil abide
Aiding the gifted wind to overtide
It's hindrances; verse such as this has erred
In seeking leave to speak, and thus be heard,
Or having sought it, should have been denied." This ice-cold breath from censure's realm so wide, Blighted sweet promise; henceforth, songless bird! Yet undismayed, the simple message sped
To many waiting hearts on land and sea,
Meeting their needs; and some with bended head
Gave thanks for song which they could compre-
hend.
As in His Heaven there many mansions be
So on His earth are minds and minds, oh, friend.
MARY E. IRELAND.
If I were only young
I'd cull sweet flowers for thee!
The rose should blush a ruby red, Its opening buds love's incense shed, Its petals wide their beauty spread For thee, and only thee!
If I were only young
I'd deck my form for thee
In gleaming silks and satins bright,
And diamonds flashing to the light
To be a glory in thy sight
If I were only young!
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