My country-oh! I weep for thee,
Beside the ruins of thy fall I weep!

Nor shame I for the sacred drops thus shed;
Because each sigh is now a bitter oath,
Each tear a seal, which makes the oath a bond,
To firm restore thee to thy pristine might,

Or with thee fall! 'Twere well to weep such tears:
They purge the heart, and to the soul give strength,
To do great deeds-when deeds are needed most.
Who loves his country therefore shame not now,
O'er her great woes, with me to weep!

J. HENRY HAYWARD.

THE HARVEST OF DEATH.

ATTACK ON POTOSI, MO.,

AUGUST 9TH, '61.

ALL over our land, our beautiful land
Of meadow and hill and plain,
The golden harvests ripened stand,
And death is reaping the grain.

But not with the crooked hook or the scythe
Does the reaper arm him now;

For a harvest so vast those tools of the past
Would be deemed exceedingly "slow."

He gleans no more for the single stalk,
Nor counts what the stubbles yield;
But he draws from above the bolts of Jove,
And launches them into the field.

Hissing in wrath the red bolts fall,

Gleaming with lurid fire;

And he laughs when he hears the crackling of ears That meet in the levin's ire.

He strikes not single victims now-
"Twere a labor too great for Death;
For gathered afloat in ship or in boat,
He can blast them all at a breath—

Or smothered below, or aloft they go,
Dispersed in atom and shred;
N'importe the amount, for a sorry count
Would he make of the bits of the dead.

An insidious foe is Death no more,
But a conqueror, bold and frank,

Who proudly boasts that he marshals his hosts
And smites them rank by rank.

He drives at the mass with a sulphurous storm
Of leaden and iron rain,

And the screeching shell is the larum and knell
To the hecatombs of slain.

Oh! Death is drunken with rage, and our land
Is red with the blood of his prey:
Not the sorrows of years nor rivers of tears
Will wash the traces away.

OWEN GLENDOWER.

GONE TO THE WAR.

BEFORE THE BATTLE OF DAVIS CREEK, MÖ.,

AUGUST. 10Tн, '61.

I LOOK no more with longing eyes,
Towards the clouds in the eastern skies,
To watch the coming day;

The days have no pleasure now for me,
The beauties of earth I cannot see,
Since Charlie went away.

He gave a lock of his curling hair,
To his mother and me to wear,

The ones who loved him best;

Then marched away when the summons came, He said, to win a soldier's fame;

Our fears-a soldier's rest.

I see the flag now waving high;
How many for that flag will die,
While 'tis proudly flying?

I hear in dreams the cannon's sound,
I see upon the battle ground,

The form of Charlie lying.

My days are filled with anxious dread;
Lest I should hear my darling's dead.

My nights, they know no rest-
But when I see the morn is nigh,
I strive to hush the wailing cry
Which will not be repressed.

His mother's eyes are growing dim
Awaiting for the sight of him,
Her darling pride and joy.

O, Thou who ever reigns on high,
Wilt Thou not hear my earnest cry,
God keep our soldier boy?

CARRIE C. HALLOCK.

THE WOUNDED SOLDIER.

AT THE BATTLE OF GRAYTOWN, VA.,

AUGUST 13TH, '61.

I'M wounded, Effie, and they say

I never can get well;

'Twas in the thickest of the fight

That I got hurt and fell.
It seems to me like ages, yet
It's but a month to-day

Since you promised you'd wait for me,
Though I were years away.

Do you remember-oh! how well

It all comes back to me !-
Our sitting in the bright moonlight,
Beneath the maple tree;

When first I said I loved you,

And told you we must part,

For not e'en you could keep me, when
My country had my heart.

I knew

you did not wish it, as

Your little hand in mine,

You did not try to stay me then

By either word or sign;

But trying to keep back the tears,
Although a few would fall,

You bade me trust in God, your God,
Whatever might befall.

But all my bright ambitious hopes
Forever now are fled,

The sunlight of to-morrow morn
Will fall upon me dead;
There'll be one soldier less to fight,

One less on earth to love,

But there'll be one hand more to strike
The golden harps above.

I have a mother in the skies;
I wonder if she'll know
The little baby that she left

So many years ago.

I'm weary, Effie, and can not think :

Let this your comfort be,

Your love has been the brightest thing
In all the world to me.

W.