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Roll-Call.

“CORPORAL GREEN !" the orderly cried.
“ Here!” was the answer, loud and clear,

From the lips of the soldier who stood near ;
And “Here!” was the word the next replied.

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Cyrus Drew!”— then silence fell,

This time no answer followed the call;

Only his rear man had seen him fall, Killed or wounded, he could not tell.

There they stood in the failing light,

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,

As plain to be read as open books,
While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the hill-side was splashed with blood,

And down in the corn, where the poppies grew,

Were redder stains than the poppies knew, And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.

For the foe had crossed from the other side

That day, in the face of a murderous fire

That swept them down in its terrible ire, And their life-blood went to color the tide.

“ Herbert Kline!” At the call there came

Two stalwart soldiers into the line,

Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

"Ezra Kerr !” - and a voice answered “Here!” “ Hiram Kerr !". - but no man replied.

They were brothers, these two; the sad wind sighed, And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

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Ephraim Deane!”— then a soldier spoke : “ Deane carried our regiment's colors,” he said; " Where our ensign was shot I left him dead, Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

“ Close to the roadside his body lies;

I paused a moment and gave him drink ;

He murmured his mother's name, I think, And death came with it and closed his eyes.”

'Twas a victory, yes, but it cost us dear ;

For that company's roll, when called at night,

Of a hundred men who went into the fight, Numbered but twenty that answered “Here!”

NATHANIEL GRAHAM SHEPHERD.

Heroes.

The winds that once the Argo bore

Have died by Neptune's ruined shrines,
And her hull is the drift of the deep-sea floor,

Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines.
You may seek her crew on every isle

Fair in the foam of Ægean seas,
But out of their rest no charm can wile

Jason and Orpheus and Hercules.

And Priam's wail is heard no more

By windy Ilion's sea-built walls ; Nor great Achilles, stained with gore, Shouts 6

O ye gods, 't is Hector falls !” On Ida's mount is the shining snow,

But Jove has gone from its brow away ; And red on the plain the poppies grow

Where the Greek and the Trojan fought that day.

Mother Earth, are the heroes dead ?

Do they thrill the soul of the years no more? Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red

All that is left of the brave of yore? Are there none to fight as Theseus fought,

Far in the young world's misty dawn? Or to teach as gray-haired Nestor taught?

Mother Earth, are the heroes gone ? Gone? In a grander form they rise.

Dead ? We may clasp their hands in ours, And catch the light of their clearer eyes,

And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers. Wherever a noble deed is done,

'T is the pulse of a hero's heart is stirred ; Wherever Right has a triumph won,

There are the heroes' voices heard. Their armor rings on a fairer field

Than the Greek and the Trojan fiercely trod ; For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield,

And the gleam above is the smile of God.
So, in his isle of calm delight,

Jason may sleep the years away ;
For the heroes live, and the sky is bright,
And the world is a braver world to-day.

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

Moonlight.
“Nay, wait me here — I'll not be long;

'T is but a little way ;
I'll come ere you have sung the song

I made you yesterday.
"'T is but to cross yon streak of light,

And fresh the breezes blow ;
You will not lose me from your sight, -

One kiss, and now I go !”

So, in the pleasant night of June,

He lightly sails away,
To where the glimmer of the moon

Lies right across the bay.

And she sits singing on the shore

A song of pure delight ;
The boat flies on- a little more,

And he will cross the light.

The boat flies on, the song is done,

The light before him gleams ;
A little more, and he has won !

'Tis farther than it seems.

The boat flies on, the boat flies fast;

The wind blows strong and free ;
The boat flies on, the bay is past,

He sails into the sea.

And on, and on, and ever on,

The light lies just before ;
But oh, forevermore is done
The song upon the shore !

ROBERT KELLEY WEEKS.

The Song of Rorek.

'Twas on the night of Michaelmas that lordly Orloff's heir Wed with the noble Russian maid, Dimitry's daughter

fair.

With mirth and song, and love and wine, that was a royal

day ; The banners streamed, the halls were hung in black and

gold array.

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The Twelve Apostles stood in brass, each with a flambeau

bright, To blaze with holy altar sheen throughout the festive

night.

The rings were changed, the tabor rolled, the Kyrie was

said ; The boyard father drew his sword, and pierced the loaf

of bread.

Soon as the priest did drain his cup, and put his pipe

aside, He wiped his lip upon his sleeve, and kissed the blushing

bride.

That very night to Novgorod must hasten bride and heir, And Count Dimitry bade them well with robe and bell pre

pare.

And when from feast and wedding-guest they parted at

the door, He bade two hunters ride behind, two hunters ride before.

“Look to your carbines, men,” he called,

us and gird your ready knives !” With one accord they all replied, “We pledge thee with

our lives!”

I was the haiduk of that night, and vowed, by horses

fleet, Our sleigh must shoot with arrow speed behind the

coursers' feet.

We journeyed speedy, werst by werst, with bell and song

and glee, And I, upon my postal-horn, blew many a melody.

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