Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encountered in the battle-cloud.

  Ah! never shall the land forget
    How gushed the life-blood of her brave,—­
  Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
    Upon the soil they fought to save.

  Now all is calm and fresh and still;
    Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
  And talk of children on the hill,
    And bell of wandering kine are heard.

  No solemn host goes trailing by
    The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;
  Men start not at the battle-cry;
    Oh, be it never heard again!

  Soon rested those who fought; but thou
    Who minglest in the harder strife
  For truths which men receive not now,
    Thy warfare only ends with life.

  A friendless warfare! lingering long
    Through weary day and weary year;
  A wild and many-weaponed throng
    Hang on thy front and flank and rear.

  Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
    And blench not at thy chosen lot;
  The timid good may stand aloof,
    The sage may frown,—­yet faint thou not!

  Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
    The foul and hissing bolt of scorn,
  For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
    The victory of endurance born.

  Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
    The eternal years of God are hers;
  But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
    And dies among his worshippers.

  Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
    When they who helped thee flee in fear,
  Die full of hope and manly trust,
    Like those who fell in battle here.

  Another hand thy sword shall wield,
    Another hand the standard wave,
  Till from the trumpet’s mouth is pealed
    The blast of triumph o’er thy grave.

W.C.  BRYANT.

The Sleeper.

  At midnight, in the month of June,
  I stand beneath the mystic moon. 
  An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
  Exhales from out her golden rim,
  And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
  Upon the quiet mountain-top,
  Steals drowsily and musically
  Into the universal valley. 
  The rosemary nods upon the grave;
  The lily lolls upon the wave;
  Wrapping the fog about its breast,
  The ruin moulders into rest;
  Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
  A conscious slumber seems to take,
  And would not, for the world, awake. 
  All beauty sleeps!—­and lo! where lies
  Irene, with her destinies!

  O lady bright! can it be right,
  This window open to the night? 
  The wanton airs from the tree-top
  Laughingly through the lattice drop;
  The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
  Flit through thy chamber in and out,
  And wave the curtain canopy
  So fitfully, so fearfully,
  Above the closed and fringed lid