VII.

And laurels of light, and tears of truth,
And the mantle of immortality;

And the flowers of love and immortal youth,
And the tender heart-tokens of all true ruth—
And the everlasting victory!

And the breath and bliss of Liberty;
And the loving kiss of Liberty;

And the welcoming light of heavenly eyes,
And the over-calm of God's canopy;
And the infinite love-span of the skies
That cover the valleys of Paradise-

For all of the brave who rest with thee;
And for one and all who died with thee,
And now sleep side by side with thee;
And for every one who lives and dies,
On the solid land or the heaving sea,
Dear warrior-boy-like thee.

VIII.

O the victory-the victory
Belongs to thee!

God ever keeps the brightest crown for such as thou

He gives it now to thee!

O young and brave, and early and thrice blest

Thrice, thrice, thrice blest!

Thy country turns once more to kiss thy youthful

brow,

And takes thee-gently-gently to her breast; And whispers lovingly, "God bless thee-bless thee

now

My darling. thou shalt rest!"

FORCEVTHE WILLSON.

LITTLE GIFFEN OF TENNESSEE.

OUT of the focal and foremost fire,
Out of the hospital walls as dire,
Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene,
(Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen!)
Spectre such as we seldom see,
Little Giffen of Tennessee !

"Take him—and welcome!" the surgeon said;
"Much your doctor can help the dead!"
And so we took him and brought him where
The balm was sweet on the summer air;

And we laid him down on a wholesome bed-
Utter Lazarus, heel to head!

Weary war with the bated breath,
Skeleton boy against skeleton Death.
Months of torture, how many such !
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch!
Still a glint in the steel-blue eye
Spoke of the spirit that would not die,

And didn't! nay, more! in death's despite
The crippled skeleton learned to write !

"Dear mother at first, of course: and then,
"Dear captain "-inquiring about "the men."
Captain's answer- -"Of eighty and five,
Giffen and I are left alive!"

"Johnston's pressed at the front, they say!"
Little Giffen was up and away.

A tear, his first, as he bade good-by,

Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye;

"I'll write, if spared." There was news of a

fight,

But none of Giffen. He did not write!

I sometimes fancy that were I king

Of the princely knights of the Golden Ring,

With the song of the minstrel in mine ear,
And the tender legend that trembles here,
I'd give the best, on his bended knee,
The whitest soul of my chivalry,

For little Giffen of Tennessee!

FRANCIS O. TICKNOR.

GENERAL ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON.

[Fell in the Battle of Pittsburgh Landing, Tenn., March 2, 1862.]

IN thickest fight triumphantly he fell,
While into victory's arms he led us on;
A death so glorious our grief should quell:
We mourn him, yet his battle-crown is won.

No slanderous tongue can vex his spirit now, No bitter taunts can stain his blood-bought fame;

Immortal honor rests upon his brow,

And noble memories cluster round his name.

For hearts shall thrill and eyes grow dim with tears,

To read the story of his touching fate;

How in his death the gallant soldier wears
The crown that came for earthly life too late.

Ye people! guard his memory-sacred keep
The garlands green above his hero-grave;
Yet weep, for praise can never wake his sleep,
To tell him he is shrined among the brave!
MARY JERVEY.