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I did not mean it should be so,

And yet I might have known

That hearts that live as close as ours
Can never keep their own.

But we are fallen on evil times,
And, do whate'er I may,

My heart grows sad about the war,
And sadder every day.

1 think about it when I work,
And when I try to rest,

And never more than when your

Is pillowed on my breast;

head

For then I see the camp-fires blaze,

And sleeping men around,

Who turn their faces towards their homes,
And dream upon the ground.

I think about the dear, brave boys,
My mates in other years,

Who pine for home and those they love,

Till I am choked with tears.

With shouts and cheers they marched away

On glory's shining track,

But, ah! how long, how long they stay!

How few of them come back!

One sleeps beside the Tennessee,
And one beside the James,
And one fought on a gallant ship,
And perished in its flames.

And some, struck down by fell disease,
Are breathing out their life;
And others, maimed by cruel wounds,
Have left the deadly strife.

Ah, Marty! Marty! only think
Of all the boys have done
And suffered in this weary war!
Brave heroes, every one!
O, often, often in the night,

I hear their voices call:

Come on and help us! Is it right
That we should bear it all?"

And when I kneel and try to pray,
My thoughts are never free,

But cling to those who toil and fight
And die for you and me.

And when I pray for victory,

It seems almost a sin

To fold my hands and ask for what

I will not help to win.

O, do not cling to me and cry,
For it will break my heart;

I'm sure you'd rather have me die
Than not to bear my part.

You think that some should stay at home
To care for those away;

But still I'm helpless to decide
If I should go or stay.

For, Marty, all the soldiers.love,
And all are loved again;
And I am loved, and love perhaps,

No more than other men.

I cannot tell-I do not know-
Which way my duty lies,

Or where the Lord would have me build
My fire of sacrifice.

I feel-I know-I am not mean;
And though I seem to boast,
I'm sure that I would give my life
To those who need it most.
Perhaps the Spirit will reveal

That which is fair and right;
So, Marty, let us humbly kneel
And pray to Heaven for light.

Peace in the clover-scented air,
And stars within the dome;
And, underneath, in dim repose,
A plain New England home.
Within, a widow in her weeds,
From whom all joy is flown,
Who kneels among her sleeping babes,

And weeps and prays alone!

THE CLOSING YEAR.-By George D. Prentice.

"TIs midnight's holy hour,-and silence now

Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er

The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds
The bell's deep tones are swelling,-'tis the knell
Of the departed year. No funeral train
Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood,
With melancholy light, the moon-beams rest
Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred
As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud

That floats so still and placidly through heaven,

The spirits of the seasons seem to stand,→

Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter with its aged locks,-and breathe,

In mournful cadences that come abroad

Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail,
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year,
Gone from the Earth forever.

'Tis a time

For memory and for tears. Within the deep,
Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim,
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold
And solemn finger to the beautiful
And holy visions that have passed away,
And left no shadow of their loveliness
On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts
The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love,
And, bending mournfully above the pale,

Sweet forms, that slumber there, scatters dead flowers
O'er what has passed to nothingness.

The year

Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow,
Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course,
It waved its scepter o'er the beautiful,—
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand
Upon the strong man,-and the haughty form
Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim.
It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged
The bright and joyous,-and the tearful wail
Of stricken ones, is heard where erst the song
And reckless shout resounded.

It passed o'er

The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shigl
Flashed in the light of mid-day,—and the strength
Of serried hosts, is shivered, and the grass,

Green from the soil of carnage, waves above
The crushed and moldering skeleton. It came,
And faded like a wreath of mist at eve;

Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air,

It heralded its millions to their home

In the dim land of dreams.

Remorseless Time!

Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe !-what power

Can stay him in his silent course, or melt
His iron heart to pity? On, still on,
He presses, and forever. The proud bird,
The condor of the Andes, that can soar

Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave
The fury of the northern Hurricane,

And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home,
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down
To rest upon his mountain crag,-but Time
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness,
And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind
His rushing pinions.

Revolutions sweep

O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the_breast
Of dreaming sorrow,-cities rise and sink
Like bubbles on the water,-fiery isles
Spring blazing from the Ocean, and go back
To their mysterious caverns,-Mountains rear
To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow
Their tall heads to the plain,-new Empires rise,
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries,
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche,
Startling the nations,-and the very stars,
Yon bright and burning blazonry of God,
Glitter a while in their eternal depths,

And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train,
Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away
To darkle in the trackless void,-Yet, Time,
Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career,
Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path,
To sit and mize, like other conquerors
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.

SELECT PASSAGES IN VERSE.
TELL ON SWITZERLAND.-J. S. Knowles.
ONCE Switzerland was free! With what a pride
I used to walk these hills,-look up to Heaven,
And bless God that it was so! It was free
From end to end, from cliff to lake 'twas free!
Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks,
And plough our valleys, without asking leave;
Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow
In very presence of the regal sun!
How happy was I in it, then! I loved
Its very storms. Ay, often have I sat

In my boat at night, when midway o'er the lake,
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge
The wind came roaring,-I have sat and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think I had no master save his own.

SONNET.

THE honey-bee that wanders all day long
The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er,
To gather in his fragrant winter store,
Humming in calm content his quiet song,
Sucks not alone the rose's glowing breast,
The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips,
But from all rank and noisome weeds he sips
The single drop of sweetness ever pressed
Within the poison chalice. Thus, if we

Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet
In all the varied human flowers we meet,
In the wide garden of Humanity,

And, like the bee, if home the spoil we bear,
Hived in our hearts it turns to nectar there.

SEEING AND NOT SEEING.-C. T. Brooks.

THE one with yawning made reply:
"What have we seen ?-Not much have I!
Trees, meadows, mountains, groves, and streams,
Blue sky and clouds, and sunny gleams."

The other, smiling, said the same;

But with face transfigured and eye of flame:
Trees, meadows, mountains, groves, and streams!
Blue sky and cloud, and sunny gleams!"

HAMLET TO HIS MOTHER.—Shakspeare.
Look here, upon this picture, and on this;
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
See what a grace was seated on this brow:-
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;
A station like the herald Mercury,
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;
A combination, and a form, indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal,

To give the world assurance of a man.

This was your husband.-Look you, now, what follows:

Here is your husband; like a mildew'd ear,

Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?

Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?

You cannot call it love, for at your age
The heyday in the blood is tame, it's humble,
And waits upon the judgment; and what judgment
Would step from this to this?

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