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And the brutal guards withhold

E'en the solemn Word of God! In the long night, the still night,

He walks where Christ hath trod.

'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn,

He dies upon the tree;
And he mourns that he can lose

But one life for Liberty;
And in the blue morn, the sunny morn,

His spirit-wings are free.

But his last words, his message-words,

They burn, lest friendly eye
Should read how proud and calm

A patriot could die,
With his last words, his dying words,

A soldier's battle-cry.

From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,

From monument and urn,
The sad of earth, the glad of heaven,

His tragic fate shall learn;
And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf
The name of HALE shall burn!

FRANCIS MILES FINOH.

The Blue and the Gray.

By the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of 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 friend 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,

On 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 for ever, 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.

FRANCIS MILES FINOH.

The Death of King Bomba.

Could I pass those lounging sentries,

I
Through the aloe-bordered entries,

Up the sweep of squalid stair,
On through chamber after chamber,
Where the sunshine's gold and amber

Turn decay to beauty rare, -
I should reach a guarded portal,
Where, for strife of issue mortal,

Face to face two kings are met:
One the grisly King of Terrors;
One a Bourbon, with his errors,

Late to conscience-clearing set.
Well his fevered pulse may flutter,
And the priests their mass may mutter

With such fervor as they may;
Cross and chrism and genuflection,
Mop and mow and interjection,

Will not frighten Death away.

By the dying despot sitting,
At the hard heart's portals hitting,

Shocking the dull brain to work,
Death makes clear what life has hidden,
Chides what life has left unchidden,

Quickens truth life tried to burke.

He but ruled within his borders
After Holy Church's orders,

Did what Austria bade him do, -
By their guidance flogged and tortured
High-born men, and gently nurtured

Chained with crime's felonious crew.
What if summer fevers gripped them,
What if winter freezings nipped them,

Till they rotted in their chains ? He had word of Pope and KaiserNone could holier be or wiser;

Theirs the counsel, his the reins.

So he pleads excuses eager,
Clutching with his fingers meagre

At the bed-clothes as he speaks;
But King Death sits grimly grinning
At the Bourbon's cobweb-spinning,

As each cobweb-cable breaks. And the poor soul from life's islet, Rudderless, without a pilot,

Drifteth slowly down the dark; While 'mid rolling incense vapor, Chanted dirge, and flaring taper, Lies the body, stiff and stark.

ANONYMOUL

The Golden Wedding.

O Love, whose patient pilgrim feet

Life's longest path have trod,

Not now,

Whose ministry hath symboled sweet

The dearer love of God, -
The sacred myrtle wreathes again

Thine altar, as of old;
And what was green with summer then,
Is mellowed now to gold.

as then, the Future's face
Is flushed with fancy's light;
But Memory, with a milder grace,

Shall rule the feast to-night.
Blest was the sun of joy that shone,

Nor less the blinding shower-
The bud of fifty years agone

Is Love's perfected flower.
O Memory, ope thy mystic door!

O dream of youth, return!
And let the lights that gleamed of yore

Beside this altar burn!
The past is plain; 't was Love designed

E'en Sorrow's iron chain,
And Mercy's shining thread has twined

With the dark warp of Pain.

So be it still. O thou who hast
That
younger

bridal blest,
Till the May-morn of love has passed

To evening's golden west,
Come to this later Cana, Lord,

And, at thy touch divine,
The water of that earlier board
To-night shall turn to wine.

DAVID GRAY.

Tacking Ship of Shore. The weather leech of the topsail shivers,

The bowlines strain, and the lee shrouds slacken,

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