I pressed my lips to his death-cold cheek,
    And begged him to show me, by word or sign,
  That he knew and forgave me:  he could not speak,
    But he nestled his poor cold face to mine.

  The blood flowed fast from my wounded side,
    And then for a while I forgot my pain,
  And over the lakelet we seemed to glide
    In our little boat, two boys again.

  And then, in my dream, we stood alone
    On a forest path where the shadows fell;
  And I heard again the tremulous tone,
    And the tender words of his last farewell.

  But that parting was years, long years ago,
    He wandered away to a foreign land;
  And our dear old mother will never know
    That he died to-night by his brother’s hand.

  The soldiers who buried the dead away
    Disturbed not the clasp of that last embrace,
  But laid them to sleep till the judgment-day,
    Heart folded to heart, and face to face.

SARAH TITTLE BOLTON.

* * * * *

REQUIEM

FOR ONE SLAIN IN BATTLE.

  Breathe, trumpets, breathe
    Slow notes of saddest wailing,—­
  Sadly responsive peal, ye muffled drums;
  Comrades, with downcast eyes
      And banners trailing,
      Attend him home,—­
  The youthful warrior comes.

  Upon his shield,
    Upon his shield returning,
  Borne from the field of honor
    Where he fell;
  Glory and grief, together clasped
    In mourning,
  His fame, his fate
    With sobs exulting tell.

  Wrap round his breast
    The flag his breast defended,—­
  His country’s flag,
    In battle’s front unrolled: 
  For it he died;
    On earth forever ended
  His brave young life
    Lives in each sacred fold. 
  With proud fond tears,
    By tinge of shame untainted,
  Bear him, and lay him
    Gently in his grave: 

  Above the hero write,—­
    The young, half-sainted,—­
  His country asked his life,
    His life he gave!

GEORGE LUNT.

* * * * *

MUSIC IN CAMP.

  Two armies covered hill and plain,
    Where Rappahannock’s waters
  Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain
    Of battle’s recent slaughters.

  The summer clouds lay pitched like tents
    In meads of heavenly azure;
  And each dread gun of the elements
    Slept in its embrasure.

  The breeze so softly blew, it made
    No forest leaf to quiver,
  And the smoke of the random cannonade
    Rolled slowly from the river.

  And now, where circling hills looked down
    With cannon grimly planted,
  O’er listless camp and silent town
    The golden sunset slanted.