Watches the hoary mist
Lift from the bay,

Till his flag, glory-kissed,
Greets the young day.

Far, by gray Morgan's walls,
Looms the black fleet.
Hark, deck to rampart calls
With the drum's beat!
Buoy your chains overboard,
While the steam hums;
Men! to the battlement,
Farragut comes.

See, as the hurricane
Hurtles in wrath

Squadrons of clouds amain
Back from its path!
Back to the parapet,
To the guns' lips,
Thunderbolt Farragut

Hurls the black ships.

Now through the battle's roar
Clear the boy sings,

"By the mark fathoms four,"

While his lead swings. Steady the wheelmen five

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MR. GILDER is the well-known editor of the Century Magazine, and the judicious friend of social and political reform. He was born at Bordentown, New Jersey, saw service in the Civil War, and later engaged in journalism in Newark, New Jersey, and in New York city. He has been editor in chief of the Century for more than twenty years. The Authors' Club was founded at his house, and he has been for years a prominent figure in literary and artistic circles in his adopted city. He married the granddaughter of Joseph Rodman Drake. His verse, in several volumes, gives him high rank among the poets of the present day.

SHERMAN

GLORY and honor and fame and everlasting laudation

For our captains who loved not war, but fought for the life of the nation;

Who knew that, in all the land, one slave meant strife, not

peace;

Who fought for freedom, not glory; made war that war might

cease.

Glory and honor and fame; the beating of muffled drums;
The wailing funeral dirge, as the flag-wrapped coffin comes.
Fame and honor and glory; and joy for a noble soul;
For a full and splendid life, and laureled rest at the goal.

Glory and honor and fame; the pomp that a soldier prizes;
The league-long waving line as the marching falls and rises; 10
Rumbling of caissons and guns; the clatter of horses' feet,
And a million awe-struck faces far down the waiting street.

But better than martial woe, and the pageant of civic sorrow;
Better than praise of to-day, or the statue we build to-morrow;
Better than honor and glory, and history's iron pen,
Was the thought of duty done and the love of his fellow-men.

GREAT NATURE IS AN ARMY GAY

GREAT nature is an army gay,
Resistless marching on its way;
I hear the bugles clear and sweet,
I hear the tread of million feet.
Across the plain I see it pour;
It tramples down the waving grass;
Within the echoing mountain pass
I hear a thousand cannon roar.

5

15

It swarms within my garden gate;
My deepest well it drinketh dry.
It doth not rest; it doth not wait;
By night and day it sweepeth by;
Ceaseless it marches by my door;
It heeds me not, though I implore.

I know not whence it comes, nor where
It goes; for me it doth not care-
Whether I starve, or eat, or sleep,
Or live, or die, or sing, or weep.
And now the banners all are bright,
Now torn and blackened by the fight.
Sometimes its laughter shakes the sky,
Sometimes the groans of those who die.

5

10

Still through the night and through the livelong day 15
The infinite army marches on its remorseless way.

MARY WOOLSEY HOWLAND

1832-1864

MARY WOOLSEY, whose literary reputation rests solely upon the poem below, was the wife of the Rev. R. S. Howland, of New York

city.

IN THE HOSPITAL

I LAY me down to sleep,
With little thought or care
Whether my waking find
Me here or there.

A bowing, burdened head,
That only asks to rest,
Unquestioning, upon
A loving breast.

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My good right hand forgets
Its cunning now.

To march the weary march

I know not how.

I am not eager, bold,
Nor strong- all that is past;
I am ready not to do
At last, at last.

My half day's work is done,
And this is all my part;
I give a patient God

My patient heart,

And grasp His banner still,
Though all its blue be dim;
These stripes, no less than stars,
Lead after Him.

LLOYD MIFFLIN

1846

MR. MIFFLIN was born at Columbia, Pennsylvania, where he has always resided. He was an artist earlier in life, but gave up painting for poetry, and is the author of four volumes of verse.

SESOSTRIS

SOLE Lord of Lords and very King of Kings,
He sits within the desert, carved in stone;
Inscrutable, colossal, and alone,
And ancienter than memory of things.
Graved on his front the sacred beetle clings;
Disdain sits on his lips; and in a frown
Scorn lives upon his forehead for a crown.

The affrighted ostrich dares not dust her wings

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