"Massa's berry kind to Pompey;
But ole darkey's happy here,
Where he's tended corn and cotton
For 'ese many a long-gone year.
Over yonder Missis 's sleeping-

No one tends her grave like me;
Mebbie she would miss the flowers
She used to love in Tennessee.

"Pears like she was watching Massa If Pompey should beside him stay, Mebbie she'd remember better

How for him she used to pray; Telling him that way up yonder White as snow his soul would be, If he served the Lord of heaven While he lived in Tennessee."

Silently the tears were rolling

Down the poor old dusky face,
As he stepped behind his master,
In his long accustomed place.
Then a silence fell around them,
As they gazed on rock and tree
Pictured in the placid waters
Of the rolling Tennessee.

Master dreaming of the battle

Where he fought by Marion's side, When he bid the haughty Tarleton Stoop his lordly crest of pride. Man, remembering how yon sleeper Once he held upon his knee, Ere she loved the gallant soldier, Ralph Vervair, of Tennessee.

Still the south wind fondly lingers
'Mid the veteran's silvery hair;
Still the bondman close beside him

Have you marked and trenched the ground,
Where the din of arms must sound,
Ere the victor can be crowned?

From your hearths, and homes, and altars,
Backward hurl your proud assaulters.
He is not a man that falters.

Hush! The hour of fate is nigh,
On the help of God rely!

Forward! We will do or die.

G. Hamilton.

With one heart and with one mouth,
Let the North speak to the South;
Speak the word befitting both.

J. G. Whittier.

CCXCVII.

THE WATCHERS.

ESIDE a stricken field I stood;

BE

On the torn turf, on grass and wood, Hung heavily the dew of blood.

Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain,
But all the air was quick with pain
And gusty sighs and tearful rain.

Two angels, each with drooping head
And folded wings and noiseless tread,
Watched by that valley of the dead.

The one with forehead saintly bland
And lips of blessing, not command,
Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand.

The other's brows were scarred and knit,
His restless eyes were watch-fires lit,
His hands for battle-gauntlets fit.

"How long!" I knew the voice of Peace,
"Is there no respite? no release?
When shall the hopeless quarrel cease?

"O Lord, how long! - One human soul

Is more than any parchment scroll,

Or any flag thy winds unroll.

"What price was Ellsworth's, young and brave?

How weigh the gift that Lyon gave,

Or count the cost of Winthrop's grave?