THE HESITATING VETERAN.

  When I was young and full of faith
    And other fads that youngsters cherish
  A cry rose as of one that saith
    With unction:  “Help me or I perish!”
  ’Twas heard in all the land, and men
    The sound were each to each repeating. 
  It made my heart beat faster then
    Than any heart can now be beating.

  For the world is old and the world is gray—­
    Grown prudent and, I guess, more witty. 
  She’s cut her wisdom teeth, they say,
    And doesn’t now go in for Pity. 
  Besides, the melancholy cry
    Was that of one, ’tis now conceded,
  Whose plight no one beneath the sky
    Felt half so poignantly as he did.

  Moreover, he was black.  And yet
    That sentimental generation
  With an austere compassion set
    Its face and faith to the occasion. 
  Then there were hate and strife to spare,
    And various hard knocks a-plenty;
  And I (’twas more than my true share,
    I must confess) took five-and-twenty.

  That all is over now—­the reign
    Of love and trade stills all dissensions,
  And the clear heavens arch again
    Above a land of peace and pensions. 
  The black chap—­at the last we gave
    Him everything that he had cried for,
  Though many white chaps in the grave
    ’Twould puzzle to say what they died for.

  I hope he’s better off—­I trust
    That his society and his master’s
  Are worth the price we paid, and must
    Continue paying, in disasters;
  But sometimes doubts press thronging round
    (’Tis mostly when my hurts are aching)
  If war for union was a sound
    And profitable undertaking.

  ’Tis said they mean to take away
    The Negro’s vote for he’s unlettered. 
  ’Tis true he sits in darkness day
    And night, as formerly, when fettered;
  But pray observe—­howe’er he vote
    To whatsoever party turning,
  He’ll be with gentlemen of note
    And wealth and consequence and learning. 
  With Hales and Morgans on each side,
    How could a fool through lack of knowledge,
  Vote wrong?  If learning is no guide
    Why ought one to have been in college? 
  O Son of Day, O Son of Night! 
    What are your preferences made of? 
  I know not which of you is right,
    Nor which to be the more afraid of.

  The world is old and the world is bad,
    And creaks and grinds upon its axis;
  And man’s an ape and the gods are mad!—­
    There’s nothing sure, not even our taxes. 
  No mortal man can Truth restore,
    Or say where she is to be sought for. 
  I know what uniform I wore—­
    O, that I knew which side I fought for!

A YEAR’S CASUALTIES.

  Slain as they lay by the secret, slow,
  Pitiless hand of an unseen foe,
  Two score thousand old soldiers have crossed
  The river to join the loved and lost. 
  In the space of a year their spirits fled,
  Silent and white, to the camp of the dead.