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In the Hospital. Page 299. These lines were long supposed to have been “found under the pillow of a soldier who died at Port Royal, South Carolina."

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The Petrified Fern. Page 302. resides in Connecticut.

Mrs. BRANCA, a native of Brooklyn,

Tuloom. Page 303. Mr. ELLSWORTH, who resides in Windsor, Conn., published a volume of poems in 1855, of which this one alone has gained popular favor. It appeared originally in Putnam's Magazine.

The Ocean. Page 307. A small volume of Mr. SHEA's poems, edited by his son, the Hon. George Shea, was published in New York in 1846, Mr. SHEA was born in Ireland in 1802, and died in New York in 1815.

Spinning-Wheel Song. Page 308. Mr. WALLER, an Irish barrister, was born in 1810.

The Burial of Béranger. Page 309. This poem, which appeared about three years before the John Brown song, probably furnishes the original of its popular refrain. It exemplifies the power of musical versification, the striking thought being put somewhat clumsily in the earlier poem, but with perfect rhythm in the later and better known


The Song of the Western Men. Page 310. Mr. HAWKER, who was Vicar of Morwenstow, in Cornwall, for forty-one years, was born in England in 1804, and died in 1875. He was an eccentric character, and published several little volumes of verse. The interesting story of his life, written by Sabine Baring-Gould, has been re-published in New York. Trelawney was one of the seven bishops that were committed to the Tower in 1688, and the refrain of this poem was a popular catch at the time. The story is told in chapter VIII. of Macaulay's History. Mr. HAWKER slightly altered his poem from time to time; I have preferred to give his first version.

Crossing the Rappahannock. Page 314. The incident related in this poem occurred at the battle of Fredericksburg, in December, 1862, when the pontoon bridges were being laid for the National army to cross the river. “The bridges had not spanned more than half the distance when the sun rose and the fog lifted sufficiently to reveal what was going on. A detachment of Mississippi riflemen had been posted in cellars, behind stone walls, and at every point where a man could be sheltered on the south bank; and now the incessant crack of their weapons was heard, picking off the men that were laying the bridges. The losses were so serious that it was impossible to continue the work. .... At last, General Hunt suggested a solution of the difficulty. Four regiments that volunteered for the service-the 7th Michigan, the 19th and 20th Massachusetts, and the 89th New York-crossed the river in pontoon boats, under the fire of the sharpshooters, landed

quickly, and drove them out of their fastness, capturing a hundred of them, while the remainder escaped to the hills.

Roll-Call. Page 316. Mr. SHEPHERD was a New York journalist.

Heroes. Page 317. This poem was contributed by Miss PROCTOR to the publication of a sanitary fair during the last year of the War of the Rebellion.

Moonlight. Page 318. Mr. WEEKS, born in New York in 1840, was a graduate of Yale College, and died in 1876. Three volumes of his poems were published, in 1866-'76. They contain much fine work, but the piece here given has surpassed all the others in popularity.

The Song of Rorek. Page 319. This poem appeared originally in the Atlantic Monthly. Its author, a business man of New York, published a small volume of original poems and translations in 1864, under the pen-name of John W. MONTCLAIR.

Easter. Page 328. Dr. CUTTING, who was born in Windsor, Vt., in 1813, and died in Brooklyn, N. Y., in 1882, wrote many fugitive poems, which have never been collected.

If I Should Die To-Night. Page 329. This poem, originally published in The Christian Union in June, 1873, was brought into special prominence when H. Rider Haggard inserted a large portion of it, without credit, in his novel entitled “Jess" (1887), where it is supposed to be written by the heroine and addressed to the hero, the necessary changes for that purpose being made. The lines have been attributed to Henry Ward Beecher and to others, but the evidence leaves no reasonable doubt that Miss Smith, of Tabor College, Iowa, is their author.

Cuddle Doon. Page 331. The author of this piece is a Scottish work. ing-man, whose poems have been published in a small volume.

Light. Page 333. Mr. BOURDILLON is an Englishman, born in 1852.

What My Lover Said. Page 333. This poem has been attributed to Horace Greeley from the accident that the writer's initials, corresponding to his, were signed to it on its first appearance in the New York Evening Post. Some controversy has arisen over the authorship, one newspaper correspondent asserting with great positiveness that the lines were written by Richard Realf; but they bear no marks of Realf's hand. Mr. GREENE is a lawyer of Honesdale, Pa., whose name is known in magazine literature.

What Does It Matter? Page 335. Mr. BARKER, being elected to the Maine legislature, received a circular requesting material for a biographical sketch, and wrote this poem in reply.

The Last Redoubt. Page 336. Mr. AUSTIN, an English journalist, born in 1835, has published three novels, several tragedies, and two or three small volumes of poems, of which this one alone seems to have caught the popular ear,


Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint
A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun
Afar in the desert I love to ride
A good sword and a trusty hand
Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn
A jolly fat friar loved liquor good store
Alas ! how dismal is my tale
Alas! the weary hours pass slow
A little elbow leans upon your knee
“ All quiet along the Potomac,” they say
A monk, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er
And are ye sure the news is true ?
And there they sat, a-popping corn
As one who, destined from his friends to part
A supercilious nabob of the east





Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight
Behold this ruin ! 'T is a skull
Bury Béranger! Well for you
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride
By Nebo's lonely mountain
By the flow of the inland river
By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom





Come a little nearer, Doctor,—thank you !-let me
Come see the Dolphin's anchor forged; 't is at a
Come to me, darling, I 'm lonely without thee

· Corporal Green !” the orderly cried
Could I pass those lounging sentries




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Dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main
Did you hear of the Widow Malone



England's sun was slowly setting, o'er the bills


Fair stood the wind for France
Far in a wild, unknown to public view
From the quickened womb of the primal gloom


Goe, soule, the bodie's guest
Go, forget me! Why should sorrow


Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove !
Happy insect ! ever blest
Happy the man who, void of cares and strife
Harness me down with your iron bands
Her suffering ended with the day
Hie upon Hielands
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood
Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake
How little recks it where men lie




I am dying, Egypt, dying
I am far from my hame, an' I'm weary often whiles
I am old and blind
I asked an aged man, with hoary hairs
I can not eat but little meat
I do not know where I shall die
If I had thought thou couldst have died
I fill this cup to one made up
If I should die to-night
I gaed to spend a week in Fife
I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old
I in these flowery meads would be
I lay me down to sleep
I loved thee long and dearly
I'm growing old, I've sixty years
I'm often asked by plodding souls




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