And the golden woodlands redden
In the blood of the dying sun.

At the cottage door the grandsire
Sits pale in his easy-chair,
While the gentle wind of twilight
Plays with his silver hair.

A woman is kneeling beside him;
A fair young head is pressed,
In the first wild passion of sorrow,
Against his agéd breast.

And far from over the distance

The faltering echoes come

Of the flying blast of trumpet

And the rattling roll of the drum.

And the grandsire speaks in a whisper:
"The end, no man can see ;
But we gave him to his country,
And we give our prayers to thee."

The violets star the meadows,
The rosebuds fringe the door,
And over the grassy orchard

The pink-white blossoms pour.

But the grandsire's chair is empty,
The cottage is dark and still;

There's a nameless grave in the battle-field,
And a new one under the hill.

And a pallid, tearless woman
By the cold hearth sits alone,
And the old clock in the corner

Ticks on with a steady drone.

BY FRANK LEE.

[In Bugle Echoes" Mr. Francis F. Browne introduces this poem with the following note: "In one of the battles in Virginia, a gallant young Mississippian had fallen, and at night, just before burying him, there came a letter from his betrothed. One of the burial group took the letter and laid it upon the breast of the dead soldier, with the words: Bury it with him. He 'll see it when he wakes.'"-EDITOR.]

A

MID the clouds of battle-smoke

The sun had died away,

And where the storm of battle broke

A thousand warriors lay.

A band of friends upon the field

Stood round a youthful form

Who, when the war-cloud's thunder pealed,

Had perished in the storm.

Upon his forehead, on his hair,

The coming moonlight breaks,

And each dear brother standing there
A tender farewell takes.

But ere they laid him in his home
There came a comrade near,
And gave a token that had come
From her the dead held dear.
A moment's doubt upon them pressed,
Then one the letter takes,

And lays it low upon his breast

"He'll see it when he wakes." O thou who dost in sorrow wait, Whose heart with anguish breaks, Though thy dear message came too late, "He '11 see it when he wakes."

No more amid the fiery storm
Shall his strong arm be seen;
No more his young and manly form
Tread Mississippi's green;
And e'en thy tender words of love-
The words affection speaks-
Came all too late; but oh! thy love
Will see them when he wakes."

No jars disturb his gentle rest,

No noise his slumber breaks,

But thy words sleep upon his breast— "He'll see them when he wakes."

[Southern.]

H

ARK! I hear the tramp of thousands,
And of arméd men the hum;

Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered
Round the quick-alarming drum—

Saying: "Come,

Freemen, come!

Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick-alarming drum.

"Let me of my heart take counsel: War is not of life the sum;

Who shall stay and reap the harvest

When the autumn days shall come?"

Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn

sounding drum.