A sharp affright runs through the night,
An ambush stirred, a column reined;
The hurrying steed has checked his speed,
His smoking flanks are crimson-stained.

O noble son of noble sire,

Thine ears are deaf to our desire!
O knightly grace

Of valiant race,

Thy grave is honor's trysting-place!

O life so pure! O faith so sure!

O heart so brave, and true, and strong!
With tips of flame is writ your name

In annalled deed and storied song!

It flares across the solemn night,
It glitters in the radiant light;

A jewel set,

Unnumbered yet,

In our Republic's coronet!

KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD.

OBSEQUIES OF STUART.

[General J. E. B. Stuart, the famous chief of the Confederate cavalry, fell in an engagement with General Sheridan's forces, at Yellow Tavern, Va., May 12, 1864.]

WE could not pause, while yet the noon-tide air Shook with the cannonade's incessant pealing, The funeral pageant fitly to prepare—

A nation's grief revealing.

The smoke, above the glimmering woodland wide That skirts our southward border in its beauty, Marked where our heroes stood and fought and died For love and faith and duty.

And still, what time the doubtful strife went on, We might not find expression for our sorrow; We could but lay our dear dumb warrior down, And gird us for the morrow.

One weary year agone, when came a lull

With victory in the conflict's stormy closes, When the glad Spring, all flushed and beautiful, First mocked us with her roses,

With dirge and bell and minute-gun, we paid
Some few poor rites—an inexpressive token
Of a great people's pain-to Jackson's shade,
In agony unspoken.

No wailing trumpet and no tolling bell,

No cannon, save the battle's boom receding, When Stuart to the grave we bore, might tell, With hearts all crushed and bleeding.

The crisis suited not with pomp, and she

Whose anguish bears the seal of consecration Had wished his Christian obsequies should be Thus void of ostentation.

Only the maidens came, sweet flowers to twine Above his form so still and cold and painless, Whose deeds upon our brightest record shine, Whose life and sword were stainless.

They well remembered how he loved to dash
Into the fight, festooned from summer bowers;
How like a fountain's spray his sabre's flash
Leaped from a mass of flowers.

And so we carried to his place of rest

All that of our great Paladin was mortal: The cross, and not the sabre, on his breast, That opes the heavenly portal.

No more of tribute might to us remain;

But there will come a time when Freedom's martyrs A richer guerdon of renown shall gain

Than gleams in stars and garters.

I hear from out that sunlit land which lies Beyond these clouds that gather darkly o'er us, The happy sounds of industry arise

In swelling peaceful chorus.

And mingling with these sounds, the glad acclaim
Of millions undisturbed by war's afflictions,
Crowning each martyr's never-dying name
With grateful benedictions.

In some fair future garden of delights,

Where flowers shall bloom and song-birds sweetly warble,

Art shall erect the statues of our knights

In living bronze and marble.

And none of all that bright heroic throng

Shall wear to far-off time a semblance grander, Shall still be decked with fresher wreaths of song, Than this beloved commander.

The Spanish legend tells us of the Cid,
That after death he rode erect, sedately,
Along his lines, even as in life he did,
In presence yet more stately:

And thus our Stuart, at this moment, seems
To ride out of our dark and troubled story
Into the region of romance and dreams,
A realm of light and glory;

And sometimes, when the silver bugles blow,
That ghostly form, in battle reappearing,
Shall lead his horsemen headlong on the foe,
In victory careering!

JOHN R. THOMPSON.

THE THOUSAND AND THIRTY-SEVEN.

[A full regiment of infantry consists of a thousand men and thirty-seven commissioned officers.]

THREE years ago to-day

We raised our hands to heaven,
And on the rolls of muster

Our names were thirty-seven;
There were just a thousand bayonets,
And the swords were thirty-seven,
As we took the oath of service

With our right hands raised to heaven.

Oh, 'twas a gallant day,

In memory still adored,

That day of our sun-bright nuptials
With the musket and the sword!
Shrill rang the fifes, the bugles blared,
And beneath a cloudless heaven
Twinkled a thousand bayonets,

And the swords were thirty-seven.

Of the thousand stalwart bayonets
Two hundred march to-day;
Hundreds lie in Virginia swamps,
And hundreds in Maryland clay;
And other hundreds, less happy, drag
Their shattered limbs around,
And envy the deep, long, blessed sleep
Of the battle-field's holy ground.

For the swords—one night, a week ago,
The remnant, just eleven,

Gathered around a banqueting board
With seats for thirty-seven;
There were two limped in on crutches,
And two had each but a hand

To pour the wine and raise the cup
As we toasted “Our flag and land!”

And the room seemed filled with whispers,

As we looked at the vacant seats,

And, with choking throats, we pushed aside
The rich but untasted meats;

Then in silence we brimmed our glasses,

As we rose up-just eleven

And bowed as we drank to the loved and the dead

Who had made us thirty-seven !

CHARLES G. HALPINE.

DRIVING HOME THE COWS.

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass
He turned them into the river lane;
One after another he let them pass,
Then fastened the meadow bars again.

Under the willows, and over the hill,
He patiently followed their sober pace;
The merry whistle for once was still,
And something shadowed the sunny face.
Only a boy! and his father had said
He never could let his youngest go;
Two already were lying dead

Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done,

And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp,

Over his shoulder he slung his gun

And stealthily followed the foot-path damp:

Across the clover and through the wheat, With resolute heart and purpose grim, Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, And the blind bat's flitting startled him.