Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story
    Blend with the breath that thrills
  With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory
    That fills the Kentish hills.

  And on that grave where English oak and holly
    And laurel wreaths intwine,
  Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,—­
    This spray of Western pine!

* * * * *

From “East and West Poems.”

=_429._= THE TWO SHIPS.

  As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain’s crest,
    Looking over the ultimate sea,
  In the gloom of the mountain a ship lies at rest,
    And one sails away from the lea: 
  One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching track,
    With pennant and sheet flowing free;
  One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback,—­
    The ship that is waiting for me!

  But lo, in the distance the clouds break away! 
    The Gate’s glowing portals I see;
  And I hear from the outgoing ship in the bay
    The song of the sailors in glee: 
  So I think of the luminous footprints that bore
    The comfort o’er dark Galilee,
  And wait for the signal to go to the shore,
    To the ship that is waiting for me.

* * * * *

=_Charles Dimitry,[103] 1838-._=

=_430._= “THE SERGEANT’S STORY.”

      Our army lay,
      At break of day,
  A full league from the foe away. 
      At set of sun,
      The battle done,
  We cheered our triumph, dearly won.

* * * * *

      All night before,
      We marked the roar
  Of hostile guns that on us bore;
      And ’here and there,
      The sudden blare
  Of fitful bugles smote the air.

      No idle word
      The quiet stirred
  Among us as the morning neared;
      And brows were bent,
      As silent went
  Unto its post each regiment.

      Blank broke the day,
      And wan and gray
  The drifting clouds went on their way. 
      So sad the morn,
      Our colors torn,
  Upon the ramparts drooped forlorn!

      At early sun,
      The vapors dun
  Were lifted by a nearer gun;
      At stroke of nine,
      Auspicious sign
  The sun shone out along the line.

      Then loud and clear,
      From cannoneer
  And rifleman arose a cheer;
      For as the gray
      Mists cleared away,
  We saw the charging foe’s array.

[Footnote 103:  Of a Louisiana family:  is considered one of the most promising of the young writers of the South.  The present is a favorable specimen of the poetry of the secession writers.]

* * * * *

=_John Hay._=[104]

From “Pike County Ballads.”

=_431._= THE PRAIRIE.

  The skies are blue above my head,
    The prairie green below,
  And flickering o’er the tufted grass
    The shifting shadows go,
  Vague-sailing, where the feathery clouds
    Fleck white the tranquil skies,
  Black javelins darting where aloft
    The whirring pheasant flies.