these elevated feelings tend to composure of the nerves, to the fortifying of brain and limb, and the genial repose and exaltation of all the powers of mind and body.  I need not contrast with this the case of the discontented and turbulent volunteer, questioning commands which he is not qualified to judge of, and complaining of troubles which cannot be helped.  It is needless to show what wear-and-tear is caused by such a spirit, and how nerve and strength must, in such a case, fail in the hour of effort or of crisis, and give way at once before the assault of disease.  By the aid of sobriety and the calm and cheerful subordination of the true military character, the health of the Federal army may be equal to its high mission:  and all friends of human freedom, in all lands, must heartily pray that it may be so.

There is another department of the subject which I propose to treat of another month:  “Health in the Military Hospital.”

“THE STORMY PETREL.”

  Where the gray crags beat back the northern main,
  And all around, the ever restless waves,
  Like white sea-wolves, howl on the lonely sands,
  Clings a low roof, close by the sounding surge. 
  If, in your summer rambles by the shore,
  His spray-tost cottage you may chance espy,
  Enter and greet the blind old mariner.

  Full sixty winters he has watched beside
  The turbulent ocean, with one purpose warmed: 
  To rescue drowning men.  And round the coast—­
  For so his comrades named him in his youth—­
  They know him as “The Stormy Petrel” still.

  Once he was lightning-swift, and strong; his eyes
  Peered through the dark, and far discerned the wreck
  Plunged on the reef.  Then with bold speed he flew,
  The life-boat launched, and dared the smiting rocks.

  ’T is said by those long dwelling near his door,
  That hundreds have been storm-saved by his arm;
  That never was he known to sleep, or lag
  In-doors, when danger swept the seas.  His life
  Was given to toil, his strength to perilous blasts. 
  In freezing floods when tempests hurled the deep,
  And battling winds clashed in their icy caves,
  Scared housewives, waking, thought of him, and said,
  “‘The Stormy Petrel’ is abroad to-night,
  And watches from the cliffs.”

                             He could not rest
  When shipwrecked forms might gasp amid the waves,
  And not a cry be answered from the shore.

Now Heaven has quenched his sight; but when he hears
By his lone hearth the sullen sea-winds clang,
Or listens, in the mad, wild, drowning night,
As younger footsteps hurry o’er the beach
To pluck the sailor from his sharp-fanged death,—­
The old man starts, with generous impulse thrilled,
And, with the natural habit of his heart,
Calls to his neighbors in a cheery tone,
Tells them he’ll pilot toward the signal guns,
And then, remembering all his weight of years,
Sinks on his couch, and weeps that he is blind.