UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES.

BY MARGARET J. PRESTON.

[The last words of Stonewall Jackson were:

"Let us

cross the river and rest under the shade of the trees." -EDITOR.]

WHAT are the thoughts that are stirring his breast?

W

What is the mystical vision he sees ?

"Let us pass over the river, and rest

Under the shade of the trees."

Has he grown sick of his toils and his tasks?
Sighs the worn spirit for respite or ease?
Is it a moment's cool halt that he asks
Under the shade of the trees?

Is it the gurgle of waters whose flow

Ofttime has come to him, borne on the breeze, Memory listens to, lapsing so low,

Under the shade of the trees?

Nay—though the rasp of the flesh was so sore,
Faith, that had yearnings far keener than these,
Saw the soft sheen of the Thitherward Shore
Under the shade of the trees;-

Caught the high psalms of ecstatic delight—
Heard the harps harping, like soundings of seas-
Watched earth's assoilèd ones walking in white
Under the shade of the trees.

Oh, was it strange he should pine for release,
Touched to the soul with such transports as these,—
He who so needed the balsam of peace,

Under the shade of the trees?

Yea, it was noblest for him—it was best
(Questioning naught of our Father's decrees),

There to pass over the river and rest

Under the shade of the trees!

[Southern.]

STONEWALL JACKSON.

(Mortally wounded at Chancellorsville, May, 1863.)

THE

BY HERMAN MELVILLE.

HE Man who fiercest charged in fight,
Whose sword and prayer were long-
Stonewall!

Even him who stoutly stood for Wrong, How can we praise? Yet coming days Shall not forget him with this song.

Dead is the Man whose Cause is dead,
Vainly he died and set his seal-
Stonewall!

Earnest in error, as we feel;

True to the thing he deemed was due,
True as John Brown or steel.

Relentlessly he routed us;

But we relent, for he is low-
Stonewall!

Justly his fame we outlaw; so

We drop a tear on the bold Virginia's bier, Because no wreath we owe.

The

Pre Black

BY GEORGE H. BOKER.

ARK as the clouds of even,

D Ranked in the western heaven,

Waiting the breath that lifts
All the dead mass, and drifts
Tempest and falling brand
Over a ruined land,—
So still and orderly,

Arm to arm, knee to kee,
Waiting the great event,
Stands the black regiment.

Down the long dusky line
Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine;
And the bright bayonet,

Bristling and firmly set,

Flashed with a purpose grand,
Long ere the sharp command
Of the fierce rolling drum
Told them their time had come,
Told them what work was sent
For the black regiment.

"Now," the flag-sergeant cried, "Though death and and hell betide, Let the whole nation see

If we are fit to be

Free in this land; or bound

Down, like the whining hound,—
Bound with red stripes of pain
In our cold chains again!"
Oh, what a shout there went
From the black regiment!

'Charge!" trump and drum awoke ;

Onward the bondsmen broke;

Bayonet and sabre-stroke

Vainly opposed their rush.

Through the wild battle's crush,
With but one thought aflush,
Driving their lords like chaff,
In the gun's mouth they laugh;
Or at the slippery brands,
Leaping with open hands,