A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before
By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt
If more of honor or disgrace they bore;

But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out.

Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife.
Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven;
And with the martyr's crown crownest a life
With much to praise, little to be forgiven.

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

BY F. M. FINCH.

[FRANCIS MILES FINCH, an American poet, was born at Ithaca, N.Y., June 9, 1827. A graduate of Yale College, he was for some time a lawyer in Ithaca and in recent years has been dean of the Cornell University Law School. He is the author of the well-known lyrics, "Nathan Hale" and "The Blue and the Gray."]

The women of Columbus, Mississippi, animated by noble sentiments, have shown themselves impartial in their offerings made to the memory of the dead. They strewed flowers alike on the graves of Confederate and of National soldiers.

By the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of iron have fled,

Where the blades of the grave grass quiver,
Asleep lie 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 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.

THE PLACE WHERE MAN SHOULD DIE.

BY MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY.

How little recks it where men lie,
When once the moment's past
In which the dim and glazing eye

Has looked on earth its last,
Whether beneath the sculptured urn
The coffined form shall rest,
Or in its nakedness return

Back to its mother's breast!

Death is a common friend or foe,
As different men may hold,
And at his summons each must go,
The timid and the bold;

But when the spirit, free and warm,
Deserts it, as it must,

What matter where the lifeless form
Dissolves again to dust?

The soldier falls 'mid corses piled

Upon the battle plain,

Where reinless war steeds gallop wild

Above the mangled slain;

But though his corse be grim to see,
Hoof-trampled on the sod,

What recks it, when the spirit free
Has soared aloft to God?

The coward's dying eyes may close
Upon his downy bed,

And softest hands his limbs compose,

Or garments o'er them spread.
But ye who shun the bloody fray,
When fall the mangled brave,
Go-strip his coffin lid away
And see him in his grave!

"Twere sweet, indeed, to close our eyes,
With those we cherish near,

And, wafted upwards by their sighs,
Soar to some calmer sphere.

But whether on the scaffold high,

Or in the battle's van,

The fittest place where man can die

Is where he dies for man!