"Not a patriot?" Fie! Did I whimper when Robert stood up with his gun, And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of Bull Run? Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his eyes to the wall, "There's a staff growing up for your age, mother," said Robert, "if I am to fall." Eighteen?" Oh I know! And yet narrowly; just a wee babe on the day When his father got up from a sick-bed and cast his last ballot for Clay. Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, “A new morsel of fame We'll lay on the candidate's altar," and christened the child with his name. Oh, what have I done, a weak woman, in what have I meddled with harm, (Troubling only my God for the sunshine and rain on my rough little farm) That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and whetted before my eyes, That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sacrifice? Oh, 'tis true there's a country to save, man, and 'tis true there is no appeal, But did God see my boy's name lying the uppermost one in the wheel? Five stalwart sons has my neighbor, and never the lot upon one; Are these things Fortune's caprices, or is it God's will that is done? Are the others too precious for resting where Robert is taking his rest, With the pictured face of young Annie lying over the rent in his breast? Too tender for parting with sweethearts? Too fair to be crippled or scarred? My boy! Thank God for these tears-I was growing so bitter and Now read me a page in the Book, Harry, that goes in your knapsack to-night, Of the eye that sees when the sparrow grows weary and falters in flight; Talk of something that's nobler than living, of a Love that is higher than mine, And Faith which has planted its banner where the heavenly campfires shine. Talk of something that watches us softly, as the shadows glide down in the yard; That shall go with my soldier to battle, and stand with my picket on guard. Spirits of loving and lost ones-watch softly with Harry to-night, For to-morrow he goes forth to battle-to arm him for Freedom and Right! MRS. H. L. BOSTWICK. THANATOPSIS. [Thanatopsis was written by Mr. Bryant when but 18 years of age. This is, as are the greater part of his poetic effusions, deeply imbued with the pathos of nature. A prominent critic has said that:-"Thanatopsis is the most beautiful among Mr. Bryant's productions; the imagery is concentrated and finished, chaste and smooth; the richness of its coloring and the grouping of its objects is very superior. The poet, while standing by the grave of humanity, illumines its darkness with the splendors of the universe, reconciles us to it by displaying its various inhabitants, and closes the solemn hymn by warning us, in the language of poetic and moral éloquence, to prepare for the final enemy "As one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams." The meaning of the word "Thanatopsis," is a view of death,-the grave. It should be read on rather a low key, with slow time, long quantity, and rhetorical pauses. After uttering the first word of the last line in the fourth verse, such a pause should be made. This poem does not, as some have supposed, inculcate the dark, the hopeless, and false doctrine, that "death is an eternal sleep."] To him, who, in the love of nature, holds When thoughts Of the last bitter hour, come like a blight Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, To nature's teaching, while from all around, "Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet, in the cold ground, Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim To mix forever with the elements, To be a brother to th' insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Shall send its roots abroad and pierce thy mold. Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish "The hills, Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun: the vales, The venerable woods: rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, "All that tread The globe, are but a handful, to the tribes 'So shalt thou rest; and what if thou shalt fall So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night, |