SKIMMING lightly, wheeling still,
The swallows fly low

O'er the field in clouded days,

The forest-field of Shiloh-
Over the field where April rain

Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain,
Through the pauses of night-
That followed the Sunday fight

Around the church of Shiloh

The church so lone, the log-built one,
That echoed to many a parting groan
And natural prayer

Of dying foemen mingled there-
Foemen at morn, but friends at eve-
Fame or country least their care:
(What like a bullet can undeceive!)
But now they lie low,

While over them the swallows skim,
And all is hushed at Shiloh,

THE COLOR-BEARER. (VICKSBURG, MAY 22, 1863.)

LET them go !-they are brave, I know-
But a berth like this, why, it suits me best;
I can't carry back the Old Colors to-day,
We've come together a long rough way—
Here's as good a spot as any to rest.

No look, I reckon, to hold them long;

So here, in the turf, with my bayonet, To dig for a bit, and plant them strong(Look out for the point-we may want it yet!)

Dry work!--but the old canteen holds fast
A few drops of water-not over-fresh-
So, for a drink!-it may be the last-
My respects to you, Mr. Secesh!

No great show for the snakes to sight;

Our boys keep 'em busy yet, by the powers!Hark, what a row going on, to the Right! Better luck there, I hope, than ours.

Half an hour!-(and you'd swear 'twas three)-
Here, by the bully old staff, I've sat―
Long enough, as it seems to me,

To lose as many lives as a cat.

Now and then, they sputter away;

A puff and a crack, and I hear the ball. Mighty poor shooting, I should sayNot bad fellows, may be, after all.

My chance, of course, isn't worth a dime-
But I thought 'twould be over, sudden and
quick-

Well, since it seems that we're not on time,
Here's for a touch of the Kilikinick.

Cool as a clock !-and what is strange,

Out of this dream of death and alarm, (This wild, hard week of battle and change,) Out of the rifle's deadly range

My thoughts are all at the dear old farm.

"Tis green as a sward, by this, I know— The orchard is just beginning to set, They mowed the home-lot a week ago

The corn must be late, for that piece is wet.

I can think of one or two, that would wipe
A drop or so from a soft blue eye,
To see me sit and puff at my pipe,
With a hundred death's heads grinning hard by.

And I wonder when this has all passed o'er,

And the tattered old stars in triumph wave on Through street and square, with welcoming roar, If ever they'll think of us who are gone?

How we marched together, sound or sick, Sank in the trench o'er the heavy spadeHow we charged on the guns, at double-quick, Kept rank for Death to choose and to pickAnd lay on the bed no fair hands made.

Ah, well at last, when the nation's free,

And flags are flapping from bluff to bay,
In old St. Lou what a time there'll be!
I mayn't be there, the Hurrah to see―

But if the Old Rag goes back to-day,
They never shall say 'twas carried by me!

THE BURIAL OF THE DANE.

BLUE gulf all around us,
Blue sky overhead—
Muster all on the quarter,
We must bury the dead!

It is but a Danish sailor,

Rugged of front and form;
A common son of the forecastle,
Grizzled with sun and storm.

His name and the strand he hailed from
We know and there's nothing more!
But perhaps his mother is waiting
In the lonely Island of Fohr.

Still, as he lay there dying,
Reason drifting awreck,
""Tis my watch," he would mutter,
"I must go upon deck!"

Aye, on deck-by the foremast!—
But watch and look-out are done;
The Union-Jack laid o'er him,
How quiet he lies in the sun!

Slow the ponderous engine, Stay the hurrying shaft! Let the roll of the ocean

Cradle our giant craftGather around the grating, Carry your messinate aft!

Stand in order, and listen
To the holiest page of prayer!
Let every foot be quiet,
Every head he bare-
The soft trade-wind is lifting
A hundred locks of hair.

Our captain reads the service,

(A little spray on his cheeks,) The grand old words of burial," And the trust a true heart seeks"We therefore commit his body To the deep"-and, as he speaks,

Launched from the weather-railing,

Swift as the eye can mark, The ghastly, shotted hammock Plunges, away from the shark, Down, a thousand fathoms, Down into the dark!

A thousand summers and winters The stormy Gulf shall roll High o'er his canvas coffin,

But, silence to doubt and dole! There's a quiet harbor somewhere For the poor a-weary soul.

Free the fettered engine,

Speed the tireless shaft! Loose to gallant and topsail, The breeze is fair abaft!

Blue sea all around us,

Blue sky bright o'erhead

Every man to his duty!

We have buried our dead.

Steamship Cahawba, at Sea, Jan. 20th, 1858.

THE SPHINX.

THEY glare-those stony eyes!
That in the fierce sun-rays

Showered from these burning skies,
Through untold centuries

Have kept their sleepless and unwinking gaze.

Since what unnumbered year

Hast thou kept watch and ward,
And o'er the buried Land of Fear
So grimly held thy guard?
No faithless slumber snatching-

Still couched in silence brave-
Like some fierce hound long watching
Above her master's grave.

No fabled Shape art thou!
On that thought-freighted brow

And in those smooth weird lineaments we find,
Though traced all darkly, even now,
The relics of a Mind:

And gather dimly thence

A vague, half-human sense

The strange and sad Intelligence
That sorrow leaves behind.

Dost thou in anguish thus
Still brood o'er Edipus?

And weave enigmas to mislead anew,
And stultify the blind

Dull heads of human kind,

And inly make thy moan

That, 'mid the hated crew,

Whom thou so long couldst vex,
Bewilder, and perplex-

Thou yet couldst find a subtler than thine own?

Even now, methinks that those

Dark, heavy lips, which close
In such a stern repose,

Seem burdened with some Thought unsaid,

THE VAGABONDS.

We are two travellers, Roger and I.

Roger's my dog.-Come here, you scamp! Jump for the gentlemen,-mind your eye! Over the table,-look out for the lamp!The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,

And slept out-doors when nights were cold,

And ate and drank-and starved-together.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow!

The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle

(This out-door business is bad for strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank ye, Sir-I never drink;
Roger and I are exceedingly moral,-
Aren't we, Roger?-See him wink!-

Well, something hot, then,--we won't quarrel.
He's thirsty, too,-see him nod his head?
What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk!
He understands every word that's said,-
And he knows good milk from water-and-
chalk.

The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I've not lost the respect

(Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,

So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,

To such a miserable, thankless master! No, Sir!-see him wag his tail and grin ! By George! it makes my old eyes water! That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter!

We'll have some music, if you're willing,
And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is,
Sir !)

Shall march a little-Start, you villain!

Paws up! Eyes front! Salute your officer! 'Bout face! Attention! Take your rifle ! (Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold

your

Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle, To aid a poor old patriot soldier!

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes
When he stands up to hear his sentence
Now tell us how many drams it takes
To honor a jolly new acquaintance.
Five yelps, that's five; he's mighty knowing!
The night's before us, fill the glasses !-
Quick, Sir! I'm ill,-my brain is going!—
Some brandy,-thank you,-there!—it passes!
Why not reform? That's easily said;

But I've gone through such wretched treat

ment,

Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach's past reform; And there are times when, mad with thinking, I'd sell out heaven for something warm To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends, A dear girl's love,-but I took to drink;

The same old story; you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features,-
You needn't laugh, Sir; they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures:
I was one of your handsome men !
If you had seen HER, so fair and young,
Whose head was happy on this breast!
If you could have heard the songs I sung
When the wine went round, you wouldn't
have guessed

That ever I, Sir, should be straying
From door to door, with fiddle and dog,
Ragged and penniless, and playing

To you to-night for a glass of grog!

She's married since,-a parson's wife: "Twas better for her that we should part,Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.

I have seen her? Once: I was weak and spent
On the dusty road: a carriage stopped
But little she dreamed as on she went,
Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!

You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry;
It makes me wild to think of the change!
What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? you find it strange?

I had a mother so proud of me!
'Twas well she died before-Do you know
If the happy spirits in heaven can sec
The ruin and wretchedness here below

Another glass, and strong, to deaden
This pain; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing in place of a heart?

He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,

No doubt, remembering things that were,A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,

And himself a sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now; that glass was warming.-
You rascal! limber your lazy feet!
We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.— Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ;

The sooner the better for Roger and me!

OUR LADY.

OUR lady lives on the hillside here,

Amid shady avenues, terraced lawns,
And fountains that leap like snow-white deer,
With flashing antlers, and silver fawns;
And the twinkling wheels of the rich and great
Hum in and out of the high-arched gate;
And willing worshippers throng and wait,
Where she wearily sits and yawns.

I remember her pretty and poor,—
Now she has servants, jewels, and land:
She gave her heart to a poet-wooer,——

To a wealthy suitor she bartered her hand.
A very desirable mate to choose,-
Believing in viands, in good port juice,
In solil comfort and solid use,-
Things simple to understand.

She loves poetry, music, and art,—

He dines, and races, and smokes, and shoots; She walks in an ideal realin apart,—

He treads firm ground in his prosperous boots: A wise design; for you see, 'tis clear, Their paths do not lie so unsuitably near As that ever either should interfere

With the other's chosen pursuits.

By night, as you roam through the rich saloons,
When music's purple and crimson tones
Float, in invisibly fine festoons,

O'er the buzz and hum of these human drones, You are ready to swear that no happier pair Have lived than your latter-day Adam there, And our sweet, pale Eve, of the dark-furrowed hair,

Thick sown with glittering stones.

But I see, in the midst of the music and talk, A shape steal forth from the glowing room, And pass by a lonely cypress walk,

Far down through the ghostly midnight gloom, Sighing and sorrowful, wringing its hands, And bruising its feet on the pointed sands, Till, white, despairing, and dumb it stands, In the shadowy damp of a tomb.

The husband sprawls in his easy-chair,

And smirks, and smacks, and tells his jest, And strokes his chin with a satisfied air,

And hooks his thumbs in his filagreed vest;

635

With her burden of sin she kneeleth within,
And kisses, and presses, with fingers thin,
Brow, mouth, and bosom, and beautiful chin
Of the dead that groweth not old.

He is ever there, with his dark wavy hair, Unchanged through years of anguish and tears;

His hands are pressed on his passionate breast,
His eyes still plead with foreboding and fears.
O, she dwells not at all in that stately hall!
But, day and night, 'neath the cypresses tall,
She opens the coffin, uplifteth the pall,
And the living dead appears!

MIDWINTER.

THE speckled sky is dim with snow,
The light flakes falter and fall slow;
Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale,
Silently drops a silvery veil;
And all the valley is shut in
By flickering curtains gray and thin.

But cheerily the chickadee

Singeth to me on fence and tree;
The snow sails round him, as he sings,
White as the down of angels' wings.

I watch the slow flakes as they fall
On bank and brier and broken wall;
Over the orchard, waste and brown,
All noiselessly they settle down,
Tipping the apple-boughs, and each
Light quivering twig of plum and peach.

On turf and curb and bower-roof
The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof;
It paves with pearl the garden-walk;
And lovingly round tattered stalk
And shivering stem its magic weaves
A mantle fair as lily-leaves.

The hooded beehive, small and low, Stands like a maiden in the snow; And the old door-slab is half hid Under an alabaster lid.

All day it snows: the sheeted post
Gleams in the dimness like a ghost;
All day the blasted oak has stood
A muted wizard of the wood;
Garland and airy cap adorn
The sumach and the wayside thorn,
And clustering spangles lodge and shine
In the dark tresses of the pine.