Cling! clang! forward all!

Heaven help those whose horses fall!
Cut left and right!

They flee before our fierce attack!

They fall! they spread in broken surges Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, And leave the foeman to his dirges. WHEEL!

The bugles sound the swift recall :
Cling! clang! backward all!
Home, and good-night!

!

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

THE WATCHERS.

BESIDE a stricken field I stood;
On the torn turf, on grass and wood,
Hung heavily the dew of blood.

Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain,
But all the air was quick with pain
And gusty sighs and tearful rain.

Two angels, each with drooping head,
And folded wings and noiseless tread,
Watched by that valley of the dead.
The one, with forehead saintly bland,
And lips of blessing, not command,
Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand.

The other's brows were scarred and knit,
His restless eyes were watch-fires lit,
His hands for battle-gauntlets fit.

"How long," I knew the voice of Peace; Is there no respite?—no release?—— When shall the hopeless quarrel cease?

"O Lord, how long!-One human soul Is more than any parchment scroll,

Or any flag thy winds unroll.

What price was Ellsworth's, young and brave? How weigh the gift that Lyon gave,

Or count the cost of Winthrop's grave?

"O brother! if thine eye can see,
Tell how and when the end shall be,
What hope remains for thee and me.”
Then Freedom sternly said: “I shun
No strife nor pang beneath the sun,
When human rights are staked and won.
"I knelt with Ziska's hunted flock,
I watched in Toussaint's cell of rock,
I walked with Sidney to the block.
"The moor of Marston felt my tread,
Through Jersey snows the march I led,
My voice Magenta's charges sped.

"But now through weary day and night
I watch a vague and aimless fight,
For leave to strike one blow aright.

"On either side my foe they own:

One guards through love his ghastly throne, And one through fear to reverence grown.

"Why wait we longer, mocked, betrayed, By open foes, or those afraid

To speed thy coming through my aid? "Why watch to see who win or fall?— I shake the dust against them all,

I leave them to their senseless brawl."

'Nay," Peace implored: "yet longer wait; The doom is near, the stake is great,

God knoweth if it be too late.

"Still wait and watch; the way prepare Where I with folded wings of prayer May follow, weaponless and bare.'

"Too late!" the stern sad voice replied,
"Too late!" its mournful echo sighed,
In low lament the answer died.

A rustling as of wings in flight,
An upward gleam of lessening white,
So passed the vision, sound and sight.

But round me, like a silver bell
Rung down the listening sky to tell
Of holy help, a sweet voice fell.

"Still hope and trust," it sang; "the rod
Must fall, the wine-press must be trod,

But all is possible with God!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

MY AUTUMN WALK.

[October, 1864.]

ON woodlands ruddy with autumn
The amber sunshine lies;

I look on the beauty round me,

And tears come into my eyes.

For the wind that sweeps the meadows
Blows out of the far Southwest,
Where our gallant men are fighting,
And the gallant dead are at rest.

The golden-rod is leaning,

And the purple aster waves

In a breeze from the land of battles,
A breath from the land of graves.

Full fast the leaves are dropping
Before that wandering breath;
As fast, on the field of battle,
Our brethren fall in death.

Beautiful over my pathway
The forest spoils are shed;
They are spotting the grassy hillocks
With purple and gold and red.

Beautiful is the death-sleep
Of those who bravely fight
In their country's holy quarrel,
And perish for the Right.

But who shall comfort the living,
The light of whose homes is gone:
The bride that, early widowed,
Lives broken-hearted on ;

The matron whose sons are lying
In graves on a distant shore ;
The maiden, whose promised husband
Comes back from the war no more?

I look on the peaceful dwellings
Whose windows glimmer in sight,
With croft and garden and orchard,
That bask in the mellow light;

And I know that, when our couriers
With news of victory come,
They will bring a bitter message
Of hopeless grief to some.

Again I turn to the woodlands,
And shudder as I see

The mock-grape's blood-red banner
Hung out on the cedar-tree;

And I think of days of slaughter,

And the night-sky red with flames,
On the Chattahoochee's meadows,
And the wasted banks of the James.

Oh, for the fresh spring-season,
When the groves are in their prime;
And far away in the future

Is the frosty autumn-time!

Oh, for that better season,

When the pride of the foe shall yield,
And the hosts of God and Freedom

March back from the well-won field;

And the matron shall clasp her first-born
With tears of joy and pride;

And the scarred and war-worn lover
Shall claim his promised bride!

The leaves are swept from the branches;
But the living buds are there,

With folded flower and foliage,

To sprout in a kinder air.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

HYMN OF THE MOTHERS OF OUR VOL-
UNTEERS.

HOME calls each loved familiar name
With precious memories stored :
Deal gently, Lord! 'Twas not for fame
Our children took the sword.

We never thought, when each young face
First softly touched our own,

And little hands with sweet embrace
About our necks were thrown,