Out in the bridal robe of white

Sweet hawthorn decks the lane;
Who tuned the windharp's thrilling string
To the sad, sad minor strain?

Hark! that sad minor strain !

I think, as I see the whitening bloom
Drift down in a fleecy cloud,
Not of the mist of bridal veils,

But the chill of an icy shroud—
Snow is the soldier's shroud.

There's a whisper of crocus and hyacinth
Where fairies watch their birth;
Methinks like little white babes they lie,
Still-born on their mother-earth-

Dead babes on the mother-earth.

Where the dear warm blood flowed out so free, Did the wild wind steal its moans

That fill me with anguish of unshed tears?
'Tis the Banshee's shivering groans !—
List! it shivers, and sobs, and groans!

O spirit of sorrow, Banshee white!
Wail on, for I cannot sleep;

Coldness and darkness wander with me,
The vigil of woe to keep-

*

Pale woe her watch must keep.

In the long, long march, did he track the snow
With his weary bleeding feet?

Was his dear face cold in the pelting rain,
Or numbed by the blinding sleet?

Barefoot through the blinding sleet!

Was he pale from the pain, the hunger pain,
Or did he step proud and strong
To the onward note from the bugle's throat
When the boys cheered loud and long?
Oh, the march was long, so long!

Where, where is the sword whose gleaming blade

Flashed up against the sky,

And wrote in a broad white quivering line
How Southern men could die !-
Thus martyrs fighting die!

Ho! Walthalls's men, and Brantley's line!
The good steel must not rust;
His name must be the battle-cry,

His murderers bite the dust!

"Shot through the heart!" My own stands still, With its breaking, breaking pain;

All, all grows dark, but the words of fire
That burn my reeling brain-

Rent heart and aching brain.

Who sprang to his side in the foremost ranks,
And over him bent the knee,

To smooth from his brow the dark damp hair,
And kiss him again for me?

Who kissed his dear lips for me?

Kind stranger, guard that sacred spot;
He died to free thy land;

His name thou'lt find on rude head-board,
Carved there by pitying hand-

God bless that soldier's hand!

We've watched and nursed your dying ones,
Have wreathed their graves with flowers;
Will any gentle hand thus wreathe

That holy mound of ours?

Oh, shield that grave of ours!

Oh, the parching thirst and numbing cold
And the hunger-pain are o'er;
The weary feet, fresh-sandalled now,

Rest on the golden shore

Fair, God-lit, healing shore.

*

*

*

*

In his threadbare suit, with its honor-stains,
They laid him down to rest;

Did they fold our flag, with its spotless stars,
On my poor dead brother's breast?
Oh, dear, dear bleeding breast!

Oh, say that I'm mad or dreaming—
That Joy will come once more!

Then the Summer woods of the bright Southland
May leaf as they leaved of yore!
With Life they sprung of yore !

Then the hills may don their arabesque,
And the Arcenciel may shine,

While the rose on the cheek of the blushing year
Woos the roses back to mine:

The roses have died on mine.

No; the Spring will pass, and Summer fruit,
And Fall sheaves gild the ground;
But the sad weird song the Banshee sings
Will follow the whole year round—

Dark Winter the whole year round!
Down in the glen, the dogwood white,
By the maple's living red,
But brings to mind the cold, cold sheet
That shrouds the bleeding dead!—

Snow shrouds our darling dead !
Oh, weary Winter has almost gone,

With its Christmas berries swung; They seem but drops of human blood From human anguish wrung!

O God, our hearts are wrung! "Killed outright!"--Oh, wretched dream! When, when shall I awake?

If the words ring on, thus wildly on,

My tortured heart must break!—

God help me ere it break!

INA MARIE PORTER.

SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA.

·

[This popular song was written while its author, Adjutant Byers, of the Fifth Iowa Regiment, was a prisoner at Columbia, S. C. Of its origin he says: "There are hundreds of old comrades who remember the afternoon in the prison-pen at Columbia when our glee club said, Now we are going to sing something about Billy Sherman'!' and with what rousing cheers the song and the writer were welcomed. The rebel officers ran in to see what was loose among the prisoners, and they, too, had music in their souls, and said if the glee club would sing Dixie Land' they might sing Sherman's March to the Sea' also; and so for weeks our glee club-the only sunshine we had in prison-made the old barrack walls ring with songs of the blue and the gray. The piece attracted the attention of General Sherman, who sent for the author and attached him to his staff.]

OUR camp-fires shone bright on the mountain
That frowned on the river below,

As we stood by our guns in the morning,
And eagerly watched for the foe;
When a rider came out of the darkness
That hung over mountain and tree,
And shouted, "Boys, up and be ready!
For Sherman will march to the sea!"

Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sherman
Went up from each valley and glen,
And the bugles re-echoed the music

That came from the lips of the men ;

For we knew that the stars in our banner
More bright in their splendor would be,
And that blessings from Northland would greet us
When Sherman marched down to the sea.

Then forward, boys! forward to battle!
We marched on our wearisome way,
We stormed the wild hills of Resaca-
God bless those who fell on that day!
Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory,

Frowned down on the flag of the free;

But the East and the West bore our standard,
And Sherman marched on to the sea.

Still onward we pressed, till our banners
Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls,
And the blood of the patriot dampened
The soil where the traitor-flag falls;
We paused not to weep for the fallen
Who slept by each river and tree,
Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurel,
As Sherman marched down to the sea.

Oh, proud was our army that morning,
That stood where the pine darkly towers,
When Sherman said, "Boys, you are weary,
But to-day fair Savannah is ours!"
Then sang we the song of our chieftain,
That echoed o'er river and lea,

And the stars in our banner shone brighter
When Sherman marched down to the sea.
SAMUEL H. M. BYERS,

SONG OF SHERMAN'S ARMY.

A PILLAR of fire by night,

A pillar of smoke by day,

Some hours of march--then a halt to fight,

And so we hold our way;

Some hours of march-then a halt to fight,

As on we hold our way.

Over mountain and plain and stream,
To some bright Atlantic bay,

With our arms aflash in the morning beam,

We hold our festal way;

With our arms aflash in the morning beam,
We hold our checkless way.