spot
  By all save some fond few, forgot—­
  Lie the true martyrs of the fight
  Which strikes for freedom and for right. 
  Of them, their patriot zeal and pride,
  The lofty faith that with them died,
  No grateful page shall farther tell
  Than that so many bravely fell;
  And we can only dimly guess
  What worlds of all this world’s distress,
  What utter woe, despair, and dearth,
  Their fate has brought to many a hearth. 
  Just such a sky as this should weep
  Above them, always, where they sleep;
  Yet, haply, at this very hour
  Their graves are like a lover’s bower;
  And Nature’s self, with eyes unwet,
  Oblivious of the crimson debt
  To which she owes her April grace,
  Laughs gayly o’er their burial-place.

[Footnote 92:  A native of South Carolina.  He has a fine poetic sentiment, with much beauty of expression, and is an especial favorite in the South.]

* * * * *

=_Susan A. Talley Von Weiss,_=[93] about =_1830-._=

=_417._= THE SEA-SHELL.

  Sadly the murmur, stealing
    Through the dim windings of the mazy shell,
  Seemeth some ocean-mystery concealing
      Within its cell.

  And ever sadly breathing,
    As with the tone of far-off waves at play,
  That dreamy murmur through the sea-shell wreathing
      Ne’er dies away.

  It is no faint replying
    Of far-off melodies of wind and wave,
  No echo of the ocean billow, sighing
      Through gem-lit cave.

  It is no dim retaining
    Of sounds that through the dim sea-caverns swell
  But some lone ocean spirit’s sad complaining,
      Within that cell.

* * * * *

  I languish for the ocean—­
    I pine to view the billow’s heaving crest;
  I miss the music of its dream-like motion,
      That lulled to rest.

  How like art thou, sad spirit,
    To many a one, the lone ones of the earth! 
  Who in the beauty of their souls inherit
      A purer birth;

* * * * *

  Yet thou, lone child of ocean,
    May’st never more behold thine ocean-foam,
  While they shall rest from each wild, sad emotion,
      And find their home!

[Footnote 93:  A native of Virginia; her poetical pieces have been much admired.]

* * * * *

=_Albert Sutliffe,[94] 1830-._=

=_418._= “MAY NOON.”

  The farmer tireth of his half-day toil,
   He pauseth at the plough,
  He gazeth o’er the furrow-lined soil,
    Brown hand above his brow.

  He hears, like winds lone muffled ’mong the hills,
    The lazy river run;
  From shade of covert woods, the eager rills
    Bound forth into the sun.

  The clustered clouds of snowy apple-blooms,
   Scarce shivered by a breeze,
  With odor faint, like flowers in feverish rooms,
    Fall, flake by flake, in peace.