DRIVING HOME THE COWS.

But after the evening work was done,

And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun,

And stealthily followed the foot-path damp,

Across the clover and through the wheat,

With resolute heart and purpose grim, Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, And the blind bats flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white,
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;
And now, when the cows came back at night,
The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm
That three were lying where two had lain;
And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm
Could never lean on a son's again.

The summer day grew cool and late;

He went for the cows when the work was done;

But down the lane, as he opened the gate,

He saw them coming, one by one,

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,
Shaking their horns in the evening wind;
Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,
But who was it following close behind?

Loosely swung in the idle air

The empty sleeve of army blue;
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,
Looked out a face that the father knew;

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn,
And yield their dead unto life again;
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn
In golden glory at last may wane.

137

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes;

For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb; And under the silent evening skies

Together they followed the cattle home.

KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.

Reveille.

HE morning is cheery, my boys, arouse !

TH

The dew shines bright on the chestnut boughs,

And the sleepy mist on the river lies,

Though the east is flushing with crimson dyes.
Awake! awake! awake!

O'er field and wood and brake,

With glories newly born,

Comes on the blushing morn,

Awake! awake!

You have dreamed of your homes and friends all night;
You have basked in your sweethearts' smiles so bright;
Come, part with them all for a while again, -

Be lovers in dreams; when awake, be men.
Turn out! turn out! turn out!

You have dreamed full long, I know.
Turn out! turn out! turn out!

The east is all aglow.

Turn out! turn out!

From every valley and hill there come
The clamoring voices of fife and drum;

And out in the fresh, cool morning air
The soldiers are swarming everywhere.
Fall in fall in! fall in!
Every man in his place.
Fall in fall in! fall in!

Each with a cheerful face.

Fall in fall in !

MICHAEL O'CONNOR.

SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'ER.

139

H

After War

E came when the war was ended,

From camp and battle-field,

Home, to be gently tended,

His heavy wound half healed.

After the joy of meeting,

With its mingled pain, had passed,
Peace, with a holy greeting,

Kissed all our lips at last.

But when on her stay we reckoned,
A sad farewell she breathed,
And rose and softly beckoned

To him whose sword was sheathed.
He laid him down meek-hearted,
We filled his breast with flowers;
Our hero had departed

To a surer peace than ours.

ISA CRAIG KNOX.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er.

OLDIER, rest! thy warfare o’er,

So

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;

Dream of battle-fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking,

In our isle's enchanted hall

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,

Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Dream of fighting fields no more;

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,

Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the daybreak from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,

Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here;
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,

While our slumberous spells assail ye,

Dream not, with the rising sun,

Bugles here shall sound reveillé.

Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen

How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,

For, at dawning to assail ye,

Here no bugles sound reveillé.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

The Old Sergeant.

OME a little nearer, Doctor, — thank you, — let me take

"COM

the cup:

- draw it closer, —just another little

Maybe you may think I'm better; but I'm pretty well used

Doctor, you've done all you could do, but I'm just a-going

up!

THE OLD SERGEANT.

141

"Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it an't much use to

try"

"Never say that," said the Surgeon, as he smothered down a

sigh;

"It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say die !" "What you say will make no difference, Doctor, when you come to die.

"Doctor, what has been the matter?" "You were very faint, they say;

You must try to get to sleep now." "Doctor, have I been

away?"

"Not that anybody knows of!"

to stay!

"Doctor — Doctor, please

There is something I must tell you, and you won't have long

to stay!

"I have got my marching orders, and I'm ready now to go; Doctor, did you say I fainted? - but it could n't ha' been so, For as sure as I'm a Sergeant, and was wounded at Shiloh, I've this very night been back there, on the old field of Shiloh !

"This is all that I remember: The last time the Lighter

came,

And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises much the

same,

He had not been gone five minutes before something called

"And I wondered who could call me so distinctly and so

slow,

Knew it could n't be the Lighter, he could not have

spoken so;

And I tried to answer, 'Here, sir!' but I could n't make

it go;

For I could n't move a muscle, and I could n't make it go!