under foot, or sent into the Cam, and no one would have stopped to render them assistance. The coxswain of the Caius boat looked the very personification of excitement; he bent over at every pull till his nose almost touched the stroke's arm, cheering his men meantime at the top of his voice. The shouts rose louder and louder. "Pull, Trinity!" "Pull, Keys!" "Go it, Trinity!" "Keep on, Keys!" "Pull, stroke!” "Now, No. 3!" "Lay out, Greenwell!"-for the friends of the different rowers began to appeal to them individually. "That's it, Trinity!” "Where are you, Keys?" "Hurrah, Trinity! inity!! inity!!!" and the outcries of the Trinitarians waxed more and more boisterous and triumphant, as our men, with their long slashing strokes, urged their boat closer and closer upon the enemy. Not more than half a foot now intervened between the bow of the pursuer and the stern of the pursued; still the Caius crew pulled with all their might. They were determined to die game at least, or perhaps they still entertained some hope of making their escape. Boats have occasionally run a mile almost touching. But there is no more chance for them. One tremendous pull from the First Trinity, and half that distance has disappeared. They all but touch. Another such stroke, and you are aboard of them. Hurrah! a bump! a bump! Not so! The Caius steersman is on the lookout, and with a skilful inclination of the rudder he has made his boat fall off-just the least bit in the world-but enough to prevent their contact. The First Trinity overlapped, but did not touch. Exulting shouts from the shore hailed the success of the dexterous evasion. Enraged at being thus baffled, the pursuers threw all their strength into a couple of strokes. The Caius men, knowing that this was their last chance, were doing their best to get away, but the other boat was upon them in a moment. Again the skill of the coxswain was brought into play, and again the pursuing boat overlapped without touching. But it was now clear that they were only delaying their fate, not averting it, for the Trinity men, going four feet for their three, were running them into the further bank in a way that left no room for change of course. "Hurrah for Trinity!" shouted I, in the fulness of my exultation, and at that moment a horse walked against me and nearly threw me off the bank. Both boats had hauled off Trinity was the head of the When I regained my feet, it was all over. on one side, and ours had hoisted her flag. river once more, and great was the joy of her inmates. Alas for human expectations! When the season ended, Caius was first and the First Trinity-No. 4. Augustus Rodney Macdonough. BORN in Middletown, Conn., 1820. A MAGDALEN OF THE DRESDEN GALLERY. 1. GERHARD DOW-LYS-CORREGGIO. NOT OT she, whose fruitless tears avow a youth Deems heaven's grace a debt to grief, forsooth- As her own emptied vase: whose hands enfold The Book from which remorse has taught her truth- The world to doubt if sentence waits on sin. 2. ZURBARAN-GUIDO. ALONE, not lingering to adore or mourn, First seen, first sent, from that transfigured grave, With "go in peace"-to seek no desert cave, With prophet-tears for sisters yet unborn, She, first forgiven, only blessed, shall crave Their heritage in all her dear Lord gave, Grace for crushed hearts, killed by the harsh world's scorn Or, rapt in vision, lifting eyes above Softened through sorrow to ecstatic love, Shall hail the promise of the golden years 1874. When balm shall be distilled from bitterest tears, God's law rule man's, and all who, following her, Theodore D'Hara. BORN in Danville, Ky., 1820. DIED near Guerryton, Ala., 1867. THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. [Originally Written, August, 1847, in Memory of the Kentuckians who fell at Buena Vista.] THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo; No more on Life's parade shall meet On Fame's eternal camping-ground And Glory guards, with solemn round, No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn nor screaming fife Their shivered swords are red with rust, And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, by battle gashed, The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal Those breasts that nevermore may feel Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe. Who heard the thunder of the fray Long had the doubtful conflict raged Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 'Twas in that hour his stern command By rivers of their fathers' gore His first-born laurels grew, And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too. Full many a norther's breath has swept And long the pitying sky has wept Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air. Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave; She claims from war his richest spoil The ashes of her brave. Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield; The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulchre. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Dear as the blood ye gave; No impious footstep here shall tread While Fame her record keeps, Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished age hath flown, Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Shall dim one ray of glory's light William Tecumseh Sherman. BORN in Lancaster, O., 1820. DIED in New York, N. Y., 1891. BEGINNING THE MARCH TO THE SEA. [Memoirs. Second and Revised Edition. 1886.] ABOUT 7 A. M. of November 16th we rode out of Atlanta by the Decatur road, filled by the marching troops and wagons of the Fourteenth Corps; and reaching the hill, just outside of the old rebel works, we naturally paused to look back upon the scenes of our past battles. We stood upon the very ground whereon was fought the bloody battle of July 22d, and could see the copse of wood where McPherson fell. Behind us lay Atlanta, smouldering and in ruins, the black smoke rising high in air, and hanging like a pall over the ruined city. Away off in the distance, on the McDonough road, was the rear of Howard's column, the gun-barrels glistening in the sun, the white-topped wagons stretching away to the south; and right before us the Fourteenth Corps, marching steadily and rapidly, with a cheery look and swinging pace, that made light of the thousand miles that lay between us and Richmond. Some band, by accident, struck up the anthem of "John Brown's soul goes marching on"; the men caught up the strain, and never before or since have I heard the chorus of "Glory, glory, hallelujah!" done with more spirit, or in better harmony of time and place. Then we turned our horses' heads to the east; Atlanta was soon lost behind the screen of trees, and became a thing of the past. Around it clings many a thought of desperate battle, of hope and fear, that now |