What have we left? His glorious inspiration, His prayers in council met. Living, he laid the first stones of a nation; J. W. PALMER. UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES. ... [This poem is founded upon the following incident, taken from an account of Stonewall Jackson's last hours: “A few moments before his death, he called out in his delirium, Order A. P. Hill to prepare for action; pass the infantry to the front; ... tell Major Hawks. Here the sentence was left unfinished. But soon after, a sweet smile overspread his face, and he murmured quietly, with an air of relief, 'Let us cross the river and rest under the shade of the trees. These were his last words."] WHAT are the thoughts that are stirring his breast? Has he grown sick of his toils and his tasks? Under the shade of the trees? Is it the gurgle of waters whose flow Ofttime has come to him, borne on the breeze, Memory listens to, lapsing so low, Under the shade of the trees? Nay-though the rasp of the flesh was so sore, Faith, that had yearnings far keener than these, Saw the soft sheen of the Thitherward Shore, Under the shade of the trees ; Caught the high psalms of ecstatic delight- Oh, was it strange he should pine for release, Under the shade of the trees? Yea, it was noblest for him-it was best Under the shade of the trees! MARGARET J. PRESTON. THE BLACK REGIMENT. Arm to arm, knee to knee, Down the long dusky line Flashed with a purpose grand, Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum "Now," the flag-sergeant cried, Free in this land; or bound 66 Charge!" Trump and drum awoke, Onward the bondmen broke; Bayonet and sabre-stroke Vainly opposed their rush. Through the wild battle's crush, "Freedom!" their battle-cry- 66 Ah! and they meant the word, Trusted the end to God, Glad to strike one free blow, This was what "freedom" lent Hundreds on hundreds fell; Oh, to the living few, Never, in field or tent, Scorn the Black Regiment. GEORGE H. BOKER. A NAMELESS GRAVE. "A SOLDIER of the Union mustered out," Thou unknown hero sleeping by the sea HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. MISSING. IN the cool sweet hush of a wooded nook, Where the May-buds sprinkle the green old mound, And the winds and the birds and the limpid brook Murmur their dreams with a drowsy sound, Who lies so still in the plushy moss, With his pale cheek pressed on a breezy pillow, Couched where the lights and the shadows cross Through the flickering fringe of the willow,Who lies, alas! So still, so chill, in the whispering grass? A soldier, clad in the Zouave dress, A bright-haired man, with his lips apart,One hand thrown up o'er his frank, dead face, And the other clutching his pulseless heart,Lies there in the shadows cool and dim, His musket swept by a trailing bough, With a careless grace in each tranquil limb, And a wound in his manly brow A wound, alas! Whence the warm blood drips in the quiet grass. And the violets peer from their dusky beds, And the lilies quiver their shining heads, Their pale lips full of a sad surprise; |