Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, and with wondrous clouds,

Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and the farm prospers well.

Down in the fields all prospers well;

But now from the fields come, father, come at the daughter's call,

And come to the entry, mother, to the front door come right away.

Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her steps trembling,

She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her cap.

Open the envelope quickly!

O'this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd, O a strange hand writes for our dear son. O stricken mother's soul !

All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she catches the main words only,

Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital,

At present low, but will soon be better.

Ah, now the single figure to me,

Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio, with all its cities

and farms,

Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint,

By the jamb of a door leans.

Grieve not so, dear mother (the just-grown daughter speaks through her sobs,

The little sisters huddle around speechless and dismay'd),

See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better!

Alas! poor boy, he will never be better (nor maybe needs to be better, that brave and simple soul), While they stand at home at the door he is dead already,

The only son is dead.

But the mother needs to be better,

She with thin form presently drest in black,

By day her meals untouch'd, then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking,

In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing,

O that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life escape and withdraw,

To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.

WALT WHITMAN.

NOT YET.

O COUNTRY, marvel of the earth!
O realm to sudden greatness grown!
The age that gloried in thy birth,

Shall it behold thee overthrown?
Shall traitors lay that greatness low?
No, land of Hope and Blessing, No!
And we who wear thy glorious name,
Shall we, like cravens, stand apart,
When those whom thou hast trusted aim
The death-blow at thy generous heart?
Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo!
Hosts rise in harness, shouting, No!

And they who founded, in our land,
The power that rules from sea to sea,
Bled they in vain, or vainly planned

To leave their country great and free?
Their sleeping ashes, from below,
Send up the thrilling murmur, No!

Knit they the gentle ties which long
These sister States were proud to wear,
And forged the kindly links so strong
For idle hands in sport to tear-
For scornful hands aside to throw ?
No, by our fathers' memory, No!

Our humming marts, our iron ways,

Our wind-tossed woods on mountain crest,

The hoarse Atlantic, with his bays,

The calm, broad Ocean of the West,

And Mississippi's torrent-flow,
And loud Niagara, answer, No!

Not yet the hour is nigh when they
Who deep in Eld's dim twilight sit,
Earth's ancient kings, shall rise and say,
Proud country, welcome to the pit!
So soon art thou, like us, brought low !"
No, sullen groups of shadows, No!

66

For now, behold, the arm that gave
The victory in our fathers' day,
Strong, as of old, to guard and save—

That mighty arm which none can stay-
On clouds above and fields below,
Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No!
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862.

THE flags of war like storm-birds fly,
The charging trumpets blow;
Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,
No earthquake strives below.

And calm and patient Nature keeps
Her ancient promise well,

Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps
The battle's breath of hell.

And still she walks in golden hours
Through harvest-happy farms,

And still she wears her fruits and flowers
Like jewels on her arms.

What mean the gladness of the plain,

This joy of eve and morn,

The mirth that shakes the beard of grain,
And yellow locks of corn?

Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
And hearts with hate are hot;
But even-paced come round the years,
And Nature changes not.

She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
With songs our groans of pain;
She mocks with tint of flower and leaf
The war-field's crimson stain.

Still in the cannon's pause we hear
Her sweet thanksgiving psalm;
Too near to God for doubt or fear,
She shares the eternal calm.

She knows the seed lies safe below
The fires that blast and burn;
For all the tears of blood we sow,
She waits the rich return.

She sees, with clearer eye than ours,
The good of suffering born-

The hearts that blossom like her flowers,
And ripen like her corn.

Oh, give to us, in times like these,

The vision of her eyes;

And make her fields and fruited trees
Our golden prophecies!

Oh, give to us her finer ear!
Above this stormy din

We too would hear the bells of cheer
Ring peace and freedom in.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

NEVER OR NOW.
[1862.]

LISTEN, young heroes! your country is calling! Time strikes the hour for the brave and the true! Now, while the foremost are fighting and falling, Fill up the ranks that have opened for you!

You whom the fathers made free and defended, Stain not the scroll that emblazons their fame! You whose fair heritage spotless descended,

Leave not your children a birthright of shame!

Stay not for questions while Freedom stands gasping!

Wait not till Honor lies wrapped in his pall! Brief the lips' meeting be, swift the hands' clasping : 'Off for the wars!" is enough for them all.

Break from the arms that would fondly caress you! Hark! 'tis the bugle-blast, sabres are drawn! Mothers shall pray for you, fathers shall bless you, Maidens shall weep for you when you are gone!

Never or now! cries the blood of a nation,

Poured on the turf where the red rose should

bloom;

Now is the day and the hour of salvation,

Never or now! peals the trumpet of doom!