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

then, And her calm stately presence gave strength to his

men.

Imagine their skirts 'mong artillery wheels,
And watch for their flutter as they fee '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 knewThat the lines slipped a bit, and some 'gan to

crowd through; 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," "My

wife.” And who were they all ?—They were many, my

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

Death;
She nurses him back, and restores once again
To both army and state the great leader of men.

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

browYour 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.

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

one.

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

SINGLE POEMS.

They wound bind on their “brassards" and march

to the fray. 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.

CLARA BARTON.

HILDA'S DREAM.

THE REVEILLE.

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,

Freemen, come! Ere your heritage be wasted,” said the quick

alarming 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

Echoed: “Come! Death shall reap the braver harvest,” said the

solemn-sounding drum.

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 sleep!
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.

“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.

But now,

“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

Answered: “Come! Better there in death united than in life a rec

reant-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!”

BRET HARTE.

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 raysAs '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.

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

arms,
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.

COLUMBIA, 1492-1892.

OCTOBER, 2IST.

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 imid 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.

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.

LAWRENCE BARRETT.

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.

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

die. “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.

SONNET.

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.

'Too commonplace!" the critic hath averred.
“Brings no high thought which with us will

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.

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.

IF I WERE ONLY YOUNG.

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!

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.

Lucy H. WASHINGTON.

If I were only young
I'd deck my form for thee

In gleaming silks and satins bright,
And diamonds flashi to the light

To be a glory in thy sight
If I were only young!