That our own veins were nursing then
The holy cause of Right,

And that from our own bosoms men
Would spring to Freedom's fight.

We deem not now the offering vain,
Our dearest though we give;
Nor do we ask release from pain,
If but the Nation live.

Still, sometimes as alone we kneel
Where once the cradle stood,
So much comes back-'tis hard to feel
That all our grief is good.

The rosy cheeks so round and fair,
The pattering little feet,

The laughing eyes and silken hair
Of those whose touch was sweet,

Rise up amid the glare and din
Of battle's fiery tide,

And flit past prison bars, within
Which love is crucified!

We know we bade them go, when stirred The land from sea to sea,

For 'twas Thy voice, O Christ, they heard
Proclaiming liberty.

But, oh, this travail long and sore,
Watching their woeful way,
And never able to do more

Than serve at home and pray.

It seems as if the mother's hand
Could soothe their sufferings best,
And that the mother ought to stand
By children laid at rest.

Forgive, O God, our doubts and fears
While Thy great work goes on;
We do rejoice amid our tears,

And pray, "Thy will be done."

Thy will-good will-its message now
Of promised peace grows strong,
And, flashing on War's awful brow,
Proclaims the doom of Wrong.

It is enough. Out from the gloom
Rises a nation free.

Still, at the cross and by the tomb,
We cling, O Lord, to Thee.

HORATIO NELSON POWERS.

WOMAN'S WAR MISSION.

FOLD away all your bright tinted dresses,
Turn the key on your jewels to-day,
And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses
Braid back, in a serious way:

No more delicate gloves, no more laces,
No more trifling in boudoir and bower;
But come with your souls in your faces-
To meet the stern needs of the hour!

Look around! By the torchlight unsteady,
The dead and the dying seem one.
What! paling and trembling already,
Before your dear mission's begun ?
These wounds are more precious than ghastly;
Fame presses her lips to each scar,
As she chants of a glory which vastly
Transcends all the horrors of war.

Pause here by this bedside—how mellow
The light showers down on that brow!

Such a brave, brawny visage !-Poor fellow !
Some homestead is missing him now.
Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing,
Some mother sits moaning, distressed,-
While the loved one lies faint, but unfearing,
With the enemy's ball in his breast.

Here's another; a lad-a mere stripling—
Picked up from the field, almost dead;
With the blood through his sunny hair rippling
From a horrible gash in the head.
They say he was first in the action,
Gay-hearted, quick-handed, and witty;
He fought till he fell with exhaustion,
At the gates of our fair Southern city.

Fought and fell 'neath the guns of that city,
With a spirit transcending his years;
Lift him up in your large-hearted pity,
And touch his pale lips with your tears.
Touch him gently-most sacred the duty
Of dressing that poor shattered hand!
God spare him to rise in his beauty,
And battle once more for the land!

Who groaned? What a passionate murmur—
In thy mercy, O God! let me die!"

Ha! surgeon, your hand must be firmer,

That grapeshot has shattered his thigh. Fling the light on those poor furrowed features, Gray-haired and unknown-bless the brother! O God! that one of thy creatures

Should e'er work such woe on another!

Wipe the sweat from his brow with your kerchief;
Let the stained tattered collar go wide.

See! he stretches out blindly to search if
The surgeon still stands at his side.

My son's over yonder! he's wounded

Oh! this ball that has broken my thigh!"

And again he burst out, all a-tremble,—

In thy mercy, O God! let me die!"

Pass on! It is useless to linger

While others are claiming your care;
There is need of your delicate finger,
For your womanly sympathy, there!
There are sick ones athirst for caressing-
There are dying ones raving of home-
There are wounds to be bound with a blessing-
And shrouds to make ready for some.

They have gathered about you the harvest
Of death, in its ghastliest view;

The nearest as well as the farthest

Is here with the traitor and true!
And crowned with your beautiful patience,
Made sunny with love at the heart,
You must balsam the wounds of a nation,
Nor falter, nor shrink from your part!

Up and down through the wards, where the fever
Stalks noisome, and gaunt and impure,
You must go with your steadfast endeavor
To comfort, to counsel, to cure!

I grant that the task's superhuman,
But strength will be given to you

To do for those dear ones what woman
Alone in her pity can do.

And the lips of the mothers will bless you

As angels sweet visaged and pale!

And the little ones run to caress you,

While the wives and the sisters cry "Hail!"

But e'en if you drop down unheeded,

What matter? God's ways are the best; You've poured out your life where 'twas needed, And He will take care of the rest.

ANONYMOUS (Southern).

A WOMAN OF THE WAR.

[The story told in this poem is literally true. Its heroine, Margaret Augusta Peterson, lived at Rochester, N. Y.; and when, after the battles of the Wilderness, the hospitals of that city were filled with wounded men, she offered her services, and was accepted, as a nurse, at St. Mary's Hospital. She died September 1, 1864, at the age of twenty-three; and her grave and the surgeon's may be seen in Mount Hope Cemetery, Rochester.]

THROUGH the sombre arch of that gateway tower
Where my humblest townsman rides at last,
You may spy the bells of a nodding flower,
On a double mound that is thickly grassed.

And between the spring and the summer time,
Or ever the lilac's bloom is shed,

When they come with banners and wreaths and rhyme,

To deck the tombs of the nation's dead,

They find there a little flag in the grass,
And fling a handful of roses down,
And pause a moment before they pass

To the Captain's grave with the gilded crown.

But if perchance they seek to recall

What name, what deeds, these honors declare,

They cannot tell, they are silent all

As the noiseless harebell nodding there.

She was tall, with an almost manly grace,

And young, with strange wisdom for one so

young,

And fair with more than a woman's face;

With dark, deep eyes, and a mirthful tongue.

The poor and the fatherless knew her smile;
The friend in sorrow had seen her tears;
She had studied the ways of the rough world's
guile,

And read the romance of historic years.