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Your picture hanging on my neck,

Up with my men I rushed,—
We made an awful charge:

And then my horse, "The Lady Bess,"
Dropped, and my leg was crushed!

The blood of battle in my veins

(A blue-coat dragged me out)—

But I remembered you;

I kissed your picture—did you know?
And yelled, "For the redoubt!"

The Twenty-Fourth, my scarred old dogs, Growled back, "He'll put us through; "We'll take him in our arms:

"Our picture there-the girl he loves

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The foe was silenced-so were we,

I lay upon the field,

Among the Twenty-Fourth;

Your picture, shattered on my breast,
Had proved "The Colonel's Shield."

A SUMMER NIGHT.

I feel the breath of the summer night,
Aromatic fire:

The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir
With tender desire.

The white moths flutter about the lamp, Enamored with light;

And a thousand creatures softly sing

A song to the night!

But I am alone, and how can I sing
Praises to thee?

Come, Night! unveil the beautiful soul
That waiteth for me.

ON MY BED OF A WINTER NIGHT

On my bed of a winter night,

Deep in a sleep, and deep in a dream, What care Ì for the wild wind's scream? What to me is its crooked flight?

On the sea of a summer's day,

Wrapped in the folds of a snowy sail, What care I for the fitful gale,

Now in earnest, and now in play?

What care I for the fitful wind,

That groans in a gorge, or sighs in a tree? Groaning and sighing are nothing to me; For I am a man of steadfast mind.

R. H. Jaddanfo

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

A HORATIAN ODE.

Not as some great captain falls
In battle, where his country calls,
Beyond the struggling lines

That push his dread designs

To doom, by some stray ball struck dead:

Or, in the last charge, at the head

Of his determined men,

Who must be victors then.

Nor as when sink the civic great,

The safer pillars of the State,

Whose calm, mature, wise words
Suppress the need of swords.

With no such tears as e'er are shed

Above the noblest of our dead

Do we to-day deplore

The man that is no more.

Our sorrow hath a wider scope,

Too strange for fear, too vast for hope,
A wonder, blind and dumb,

That waits-what is to come!

Not more astounded had we been
If madness, that dark night, unseen,
Had in our chambers crept,

And murdered while we slept!

We woke to find a mourning earth,
Our Lares shivered on the hearth,
The roof-tree fallen, all
That could affright, appall!

Such thunderbolts, in other lands,
Have smitten the rod from royal hands,
But spared, with us, till now,
Each laurelled Cæsar's brow.

No Cæsar he whom we lament,
A man without a precedent,

Sent, it would seem, to do
His work, and perish, too.

Not by the weary cares of State,
The endless tasks, which will not wait,

Which, often done in vain,
Must yet be done again:

Not in the dark, wild tide of war,
Which rose so high, and rolled so far,
Sweeping from sea to sea

In awful anarchy;

Four faithful years of mortal strife, Which slowly drained the nation's life,

(Yet for each drop that ran

There sprang an armèd man !)

Not then; but when, by measures meet,

By victory, and by defeat,

By courage, patience, skill,

The people's fixed "We will"

Had pierced, had crushed Rebellion dead,
Without a hand, without a head,

At last, when all was well,

He fell, O how he fell!

The time, the place, the stealing pace,
The coward shot, the swift escape,
The wife, the widow's scream-

It is a hideous dream!

A dream? What means this pageant then?
These multitudes of solemn men,

Who speak not when they meet,
But throng the silent street?

The flags half-mast that late so high
Flaunted at each new victory?

(The stars no brightness shed,
But bloody looks the red!)

The black festoons that stretch for miles,
And turn the streets to funeral aisles?

(No house too poor to show
The nation's badge of woe.)

The cannon's sudden, sullen boom,

The bells that toll of death and doom,

The rolling of the drums,

The dreadful car that comes?

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