The great Virginians charged and could not win, Though manhood's flower, as they have ever been In field, and hall, and by the hearth of home.

How proud their column moved,

Up the long slope of death with stubborn tread,
Obeying him they loved!

And still against the storm of fire that scourged
Supporting squadrons backward as it surged,
How fierce they held their way unwearièd!
Mayhap with other foes

They might have won ; but ever slow to yield
And ever prompt to close

Were Hancock's men ; and the Virginian shaft
That pierced our lines was shattered, head and haft,
Within the wound!-And Lee had lost the field.

Amid the eddied smoke,

The groans of dying men, and the glad cheer
Of victory that broke

From hill to hill, this thing of beauty died;
And he that wore and had forgot it, sighed
And thought of it again as something dear;
So from his breast he took

The rose and sent it home to have it set
Within this simple book,

The favorite of a girl he loved and lost,
And 'mid the leaves it lingers like a ghost-
Though they be gone, the flower abideth yet!

And often when I gaze

Into its folds and see these visions fair,
Mine eyes are filled with haze

Of tears for him that wore it, true and brave;
Almost I turn to fling it on his grave
Beside the little flag that flutters there!—
Then sigh for power to close

Within the amber clear of poetry

This pale and withered rose

That else must pass and crumble into dust
And squander in some wild and windy gust
The essence I would set in melody—
The feelings of the time

When first it bloomed; the deeds of sacrifice,
The thoughts and acts sublime,

The scenes of battle with their woe and scaith, The courtesy and courage, love and faithThat I can read within it with mine eyes!

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

BY FRANCIS MILES FINCH.

[Suggested by the fact that the women of Columbus, Miss., on their decoration day strewed flowers, with impartial hands, upon the graves of northern and southern soldiers.-EDITOR].

Y the flow of the inland river,

BY

Whence the fleets of the iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead;
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment-day;

Under the one, the Blue;
Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat:
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet;

Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Under the laurel, the Blue;
Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours, The desolate mourners go,

Lovingly laden with flowers,

Alike for the friends and the foe; Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment-day; Under the roses, the Blue; Under the lilies, the Gray.

So, with an equal splendor,
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment-day;

Broidered with gold, the Blue,
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth,
Ou forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth,
The cooling drip of the rain;

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment-day; Wet with the rain, the Blue; Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done;

In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day,
Under the blossoms, the Blue;
Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever,

When they laurel the graves of our dead. Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment-day; Love and tears for the Blue;

Tears and love for the Gray.