What have we left? His glorious inspiration,

His prayers in council met.

Living, he laid the first stones of a nation;
And dead, he builds it yet.

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?
What is the mystical vision he sees?
-"Let us pass over the river, and rest
Under the shade of the trees."

Has he grown sick of his toils and his tasks?
Sighs the worn spirit for respite or ease?
Is it a moment's cool halt that he asks

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-
Heard the harps harping, like soundings of seas-
Watched earth's assoiled ones walking in white
Under the shade of the trees?

Oh, was it strange he should pine for release,
Touched to the soul with such transports as these,—
He who so needed the balsam of peace,

Under the shade of the trees?

Yea, it was noblest for him-it was best
(Questioning naught of our Father's decrees),
There to pass over the river and rest

Under the shade of the trees!

MARGARET J. PRESTON.

THE BLACK REGIMENT.
[Port Hudson, La., June, 1863.]
DARK as the clouds of even,
Ranked in the western heaven,
Waiting the breath that lifts
All the dread mass, and drifts
Tempest and falling brand
Over a ruined land;—
So still and orderly,

Arm to arm, knee to knee,
Waiting the great event,
Stands the Black Regiment.

Down the long dusky line
Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine;
And the bright bayonet,
Bristling and firmly set,

Flashed with a purpose grand,

Long ere the sharp command

Of the fierce rolling drum
Told them their time had come,
Told them what work was sent
For the Black Regiment.

"Now," the flag-sergeant cried,
"Though death and hell betide,
Let the whole nation see
If we are fit to be

Free in this land; or bound
Down, like the whining hound,-
Bound with red stripes of pain
In our old chains again!"
Oh, what a shout there went
From the Black Regiment!

66

Charge!" Trump and drum awoke, Onward the bondmen broke;

Bayonet and sabre-stroke

Vainly opposed their rush.

Through the wild battle's crush,
With but one thought aflush,
Driving their lords like chaff,
In the guns' mouths they laugh;
Or at the slippery brands
Leaping with open hands,
Down they tear man and horse,
Down in their awful course;
Trampling with bloody heel
Over the crashing steel,
All their eyes forward bent,
Rushed the Black Regiment.

"Freedom!" their battle-cry-
'Freedom! or leave to die!"

66

Ah! and they meant the word,
Not as with us 'tis heard,
Not a mere party shout:
They gave their spirits out;

Trusted the end to God,
And on the gory sod
Rolled in triumphant blood.

Glad to strike one free blow,
Whether for weal or woe;
Glad to breathe one free breath,
Though on the lips of death.
Praying-alas! in vain !—
That they might fall again,
So they could once more see
That burst to liberty!

This was what "freedom" lent
To the Black Regiment.

Hundreds on hundreds fell;
But they are resting well;
Scourges and shackles strong
Never shall do them wrong.

Oh, to the living few,
Soldiers, be just and true!
Hail them as comrades tried;
Fight with them side by side;

Never, in field or tent,

Scorn the Black Regiment.

GEORGE H. BOKER.

A NAMELESS GRAVE.

"A SOLDIER of the Union mustered out,"
Is the inscription on an unknown grave
At Newport News, beside the salt-sea wave,
Nameless and dateless; sentinel or scout
Shot down in skirmish, or disastrous rout
Of battle, when the loud artillery drave
Its iron wedges through the ranks of brave
And doomed battalions, storming the redoubt.

Thou unknown hero sleeping by the sea
In thy forgotten grave! with secret shame
I feel my pulses beat, my forehead burn,
When I remember thou hast given for me
All that thou hadst, thy life, thy very name,
And I can give thee nothing in return.

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,
With a tearful dew in their great pure eyes;

And the lilies quiver their shining heads,

Their pale lips full of a sad surprise;