The wife who girds her husband's sword,
'Mid little ones who weep or wonder,
And bravely speaks the cheering word,
What though her heart be rent asunder,
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear

The bolts of death around him rattle,
Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er

Was poured upon the field of battle!

The mother who conceals her grief,

While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, With no one but her secret God

To know the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod

Received on freedom's field of honor!

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

BOY BRITTAN.

[Battle of Fort Henry, Tenn., February 6, 1862.]

I.

BOY BRITTAN—only a lad- -a fair-haired boy-six

teen,

In his uniform,

Into the storm-into the roaring jaws of grim Fort

Henry

Boldly bears the Federal flotilla—

Into the battle storm!

II.

Boy Brittan is master's mate aboard of the Essex-
There he stands, buoyant and eager-eyed,
By the brave captain's side;

Ready to do and dare. Aye, aye, sir! always ready

In his country's uniform.

Boom! Boom! and now the flag-boat sweeps, and now the Essex,

Into the battle storm!

III.

Boom! Boom! till river and fort and field are overclouded

By battle's breath; then from the fort a gleam And a crashing gun, and the Essex is wrapt and shrouded

In a scalding cloud of steam!

IV.

But victory! victory!

Unto God all praise be ever rendered,
Unto God all praise and glory be!
See, boy Brittan! see, boy, see!

They strike! Hurrah! the fort has just surrendered!

Shout! Shout! my boy, my warrior boy! And wave your cap and clap your hands for joy! Cheer answer cheer and bear the cheer aboutHurrah! Hurrah! for the fiery fort is ours; And "Victory!" "Victory!" "Victory!" Is the shout.

Shout-for the fiery fort, and the field, and the day

are ours

The day is ours-thanks to the brave endeavor Of heroes, boy, like thee!

The day is ours—the day is ours!

Glory and deathless love to all who shared with

thee,

And bravely endured and dared with thee—

The day is ours--the day is ours

Forever!

Glory and Love for one and all; but-but-for thee

Home! Home! a happy "Welcome-welcome home" for thee!

And kisses of love for thee

And a mother's happy, happy tears, and a virgin's bridal wreath of flowers

For thee!

V.

Victory! Victory!

But suddenly wrecked and wrapt in seething steam, the Essex

Slowly drifted out of the battle's storm;

Slowly, slowly down-laden with the dead and the dying;

And there, at the captain's feet, among the dead and the dying,

The shot-marred form of a beautiful boy is lyingThere in his uniform!

VI.

Laurels and tears for thee, boy,

Laurels and tears for thee!

Laurels of light, moist with the precious dew

Of the inmost heart of the nation's loving heart, And blest by the balmy breath of the beautiful and the true;

Moist-moist with the luminous breath of the singing spheres

And the nation's sta'ry tears! And tremble-touched by the pulse-like gush and

start

Of the universal music of the heart,
And all deep sympathy

Laurels and tears for thee, boy,

Laurels and tears for thee

Laurels of light and tears of love forevermore-
For thee!

VII.

And laurels of light, and tears of truth,
And the mantle of immortality;

And the flowers of love and immortal youth,
And the tender heart-tokens of all true ruth-
And the everlasting victory!

And the breath and bliss of Liberty;
And the loving kiss of Liberty;

And the welcoming light of heavenly eyes,
And the over-calm of God's canopy;
And the infinite love-span of the skies
That cover the valleys of Paradise-

For all of the brave who rest with thee;
And for one and all who died with thee,
And now sleep side by side with thee;
And for every one who lives and dies,
On the solid land or the heaving sea,
Dear warrior-boy-like thee.

VIII.

O the victory-the victory
Belongs to thee!

God ever keeps the brightest crown for such as thou

He gives it now to thee!

O young and brave, and early and thrice blest

Thrice, thrice, thrice blest!

Thy country turns once more to kiss thy youthful brow,

And takes thee-gently-gently to her breast; And whispers lovingly, "God bless thee-bless thee

now

My darling, thou shalt rest!"

FORCE THE WILLSON,

LITTLE GIFFEN OF TENNESSEE.

OUT of the focal and foremost fire,
Out of the hospital walls as dire,
Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene,
(Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen!)
Spectre such as we seldom see,
Little Giffen of Tennessee!

"Take him and welcome!" the surgeon said;
"Much your doctor can help the dead!"
And so we took him and brought him where
The balm was sweet on the summer air;

And we laid him down on a wholesome bed-
Utter Lazarus, heel to head!

Weary war with the bated breath,
Skeleton boy against skeleton Death.
Months of torture, how many such !
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch!
Still a glint in the steel-blue eye
Spoke of the spirit that would not die,

And didn't! nay, more! in death's despite
The crippled skeleton learned to write!
"Dear mother" at first, of course: and then,
"Dear captain "-inquiring about "the men.'
Captain's answer-"Of eighty and five,
Giffen and I are left alive!"

"Johnston's pressed at the front, they say!"
Little Giffen was up and away.

A tear, his first, as he bade good-by,

Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye;

'I'll write, if spared." There was news of a

fight,

But none of Giffen. He did not write!

I sometimes fancy that were I king

Of the princely knights of the Golden Ring,