Dur Privilege.

NOT ours, where battle smoke upcurls,
And battle dews lie wet,

To meet the charge that treason hurls
By sword and bayonet.

Not ours to guide the fatal scythe
The fleshless Reaper wields;
The harvest moon looks calmly down
Upon our peaceful fields.

The long grass dimples on the hill,
The pines sing by the sea,
And Plenty, from her golden horn,
Is pouring far and free.

O brothers by the farther sea!

Think still our faith is warm ;

The same bright flag above us waves
That swathed our baby form.

The same red blood that dyes your fields
Here throbs in patriot pride-

The blood that flowed when Lander fell,
And Baker's crimson tide.

And thus apart our hearts keep time
With every pulse ye feel,

And Mercy's ringing gold shall chime
With Valour's clashing steel.

Relieving Guard.

T. S. K.

OBIIT MARCH 4, 1864.

CAME the relief.

"What, sentry, ho!

How passed the night through thy long waking ?" "Cold, cheerless, dark,-as may befit

The hour before the dawn is breaking."

"No sight? no sound?" "No; nothing save The plover from the marches calling,

And in yon western sky, about

An hour ago, a star was falling."

"A star? There's nothing strange in that." "No, nothing; but, above the thicket, Somehow it seemed to me that God

Somewhere had just relieved a picket."

The Goddess.

FOR THE SANITARY FAIR.

"WHO Comes?" The sentry's warning cry
Rings sharply on the evening air:
Who comes? The challenge: no reply,
Yet something motions there.

A woman, by those graceful folds;
A soldier, by that martial tread :
"Advance three paces. Halt! until
Thy name and rank be said.”

66

"My name? Her name, in ancient song Who fearless from Olympus came : Look on me! Mortals know me best

In battle and in flame."

"Enough! I know that clarion voice;

I know that gleaming eye and helm; Those crimson lips,-and in their dew The best blood of the realm.

"The young, the brave, the good and wise,

Have fallen in thy curst embrace:

The juices of the grapes of wrath

Still stain thy guilty face.

"My brother lies in yonder field,

Face downward to the quiet grass: Go back! he cannot see thee now; But here thou shalt not pass."

A crack upon the evening air,
A wakened echo from the hill:
The watchdog on the distant shore
Gives mouth, and all is still.

The sentry with his brother lies
Face downward on the quiet grass;
And by him, in the pale moonshine,
A shadow seems to pass.

No lance or warlike shield it bears:
A helmet in its pitying hands
Brings water from the nearest brook,
To meet his last demands.

Can this be she of haughty mien,

The goddess of the sword and shield? Ah, yes! The Grecian poet's myth

Sways still each battlefield.

For not alone that rugged War

Some grace or charm from Beauty gains;

But, when the goddess' work is done,

The woman's still remains.

On a Pen of Thomas Starr King.

THIS is the reed the dead musician dropped,
With tuneful magic in its sheath still hidden;
The prompt allegro of its music stopped,

Its melodies unbidden.

But who shall finish the unfinished strain,
Or wake the instrument to awe and wonder,
And bid the slender barrel breathe again,
An organ-pipe of thunder !

His pen! what humbler memories cling about

Its golden curves! what shapes and laughing graces Slipped from its point, when his full heart went out In smiles and courtly phrases?

The truth, half jesting, half in earnest flung;
The word of cheer, with recognition in it;
The note of alms, whose golden speech outrung
The golden gift within it.

But all in vain the enchanter's wand we wave:

No stroke of ours recalls his magic vision: The incantation that its power gave

Sleeps with the dead magician.