But thrilled throughout its deepest flow
With yelling of the Rebels.

Again a pause; and then again
The trumpet pealed sonorous,
And "Yankee Doodle" was the strain
To which the shore gave chorus.

The laughing ripple shoreward flew
To kiss the shining pebbles;

Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue
Defiance to the Rebels.

And yet once more the bugle sang

Above the stormy riot;

No shout upon the evening rang-
There reigned a holy quiet.

The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood

Poured o'er the glistening pebbles;

All silent now the Yankees stood,

All silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive soul had heard
That plaintive note's appealing,

So deeply "Home, Sweet Home " had stirred
The hidden founts of feeling.

Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees,
As by the wand of fairy,

The cottage 'neath the live oak trees,
The cabin by the prairie.

Or cold or warm, his native skies
Bend in their beauty o'er him;
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,
His loved ones stand before him.

As fades the iris after rain

In April's tearful weather,
The vision vanished as the strain
And daylight died together.

But Memory, waked by Music's art,
Expressed in simplest numbers,
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart-
Made light the Rebel's slumbers.

And fair the form of Music shines
That bright celestial creature-
Who still 'mid War's embattled lines
Gave this one touch of Nature.

JOHN R. THOMPSON.

BEFORE THE GATE

THEY gave the whole long day to idle laughter,

To fitful song and jest,

To moods of soberness as idle, after,

And silences, as idle too as the rest.

But when at last upon their way returning,

Taciturn, late, and loath,

Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning, They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered both.

Her heart was troubled with a subtle anguish

Such as but women know

That wait, and, lest love speak, or speak not, languish, And what they would, would rather they would not so;

Till he said,

man-like, nothing comprehending

Of all the wondrous guile

That women won win themselves with, and bending
Eyes of relentless asking on her the while,

"Ah, if beyond this gate the path united

Our steps as far as death,

And I might open it!

His voice, affrighted

At his own daring, faltered under his breath.

Then she-whom both his faith and fear enchanted
Far beyond words to tell,

Feeling her woman's finest wit had wanted

The art he had that knew to blunder so well

Slyly drew near a little step, and mocking, "Shall we not be too late

For tea?" she said; "I'm quite worn out with walking: Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you-open the gate?' WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.

ABOU BEN ADHEM

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold;
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,

And, with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spake more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great awakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

LEIGH HUNT.

CLEON AND I

CLEON hath a million acres, ne'er a one have I ;
Cleon dwelleth in a palace, in a cottage I;
Cleon hath a dozen fortunes, not a penny I;
Yet the poorer of the twain is Cleon, and not I.

Cleon true possesseth acres, but the landscape I;
Half the charms to me it yieldeth, money cannot buy.
Cleon harbors sloth and dulness, freshening vigor I;
He in velvet, I in fustian, richer man am I.

Cleon is a slave to grandeur, free as thought am I ;
Cleon fees a score of doctors, need of none have I;
Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, Cleon fears to die;
Death may come, he 'll find me ready,― happier man am I.

Cleon sees no charms in nature, in a daisy I;
Cleon hears no anthems ringing in the sea and sky;
Nature sings to me forever, earnest listener I;

State for state, with all attendants, who would change?

Not I.

CHARLES MACKAY.

THE AGE OF WISDOM

Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin,
That never has known the barber's shear,

All your wish is woman to win;
This is the way that boys begin,—
Wait till you come to Forty Year.

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,
Billing and cooing is all your cheer;
Sighing and singing of midnight strains
Under Bonnybell's window-panes,

Wait till you come to Forty Year!

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear,-
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to Forty Year.
Pledge me round, I bid ye declare,
All good fellows whose beards are gray,
Did not the fairest of the fair
Common grow and wearisome ere
Ever a month was past away?

The reddest lips that ever have kissed,
The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper, and we not list,
Or look away and never be missed,
Ere yet ever a month is gone.

Gillian's dead, God rest her bier;
How I loved her twenty years syne!
Marian 's married; but I sit here
Alone and merry at Forty Year,
Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

THE LAST LEAF

I SAW him once before,
As he passed by the door;
And again

The pavement-stones resound
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.

They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of time
Cut him down,

Not a better man was found
By the crier on his round
Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets

Sad and wan,

And he shakes his feeble head,
And it seems as if he said,

"They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest

On the lips that he has pressed
In their bloom;

And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said
Poor old lady! she is dead
Long ago

That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rase
In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff;

And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.

I know it is a sin

For me to sit and grin

At him here,

But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!

And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,

Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE

'T WAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago,

Tall and slender, and sallow, and dry;
His form was bent, and his gait was slow,
His long, thin hair was as white as snow;

But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye,
And he sang every night as he went to bed,
"Let us be happy down here below;
The living should live, though the dead be dead,"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He taught his scholars the rule of three,
Writing, and reading, and history too;
He took the little ones up on his knee,
For a kind old heart in his breast had he,

And the wants of the littlest child he knew: