Then left he all-a few fond tears, by firmness half concealed, Whose fruits are garnered in the grave, whose husbandman is Without a murmur, he endured a service new and hard; But, wearied with a toilsome march, it chanced one night, on guard, He sank exhausted at his post, and the gray morning found So, in the silence of the night, aweary, on the sod But God is love, and finite minds can faintly comprehend How gentle Mercy, in His rule, may with stern Justice blend; And this poor soldier, seized and bound, found none to justify, While War's inexorable law decreed that he must die. 'Twas night. In a secluded room, with measured tread, and slow, A statesman of commanding mien, paced gravely to and fro. The woes of thirty millions filled his burdened heart with grief; 'Twas morning.—On a tented field, and through the heated haze, Flashed back, from lines of burnished arms, the sun's effulgent blaze; While, from a sombre prison-house, seen slowly to emerge, And in the midst, with faltering step, and pale and anxious face, A youth-led out to die ;-and yet, it was not death, but shame, That smote his gallant heart with dread, and shook his manly frame! Still on, before the marshalled ranks, the train pursued its way Up to the designated spot, whereon a coffin lay His coffin! And, with reeling brain, despairing-desolateHe took his station by its side, abandoned to his fate! Then came across his wavering sight strange pictures in the air; He saw his distant mountain home; he saw his parents there; He saw them bowed with hopeless grief, through fast-declining years; He saw a nameless grave; and then, the vision closed-in tears! Yet, once again. In double file, advancing, then, he saw And, shuddering, he awaited now the fatal volley'sound! Then suddenly was heard the noise of steeds and wheels approach And, rolling through a cloud of dust, appeared a stately coach. On, past the guards, and through the field, its rapid course was bent, Till, halting, 'mid the lines was seen the nation's President! He came to save that stricken soul, now waking from despair; And from a thousand voices rose a shout which rent the air! The pardoned soldier understood the tones of jubilee, And, bounding from his fetters, blessed the hand that made him free! 'Twas spring. Within a verdant vale, where Warwick's crystal tide Reflected, o'er its peaceful breast, fair fields on either side Where birds and flowers combined to cheer a sylvan solitudeTwo threatening armies, face to face, in fierce defiance stood! Two threatening armies! one invoked by injured Liberty- A fragment, torn by traitorous hands, from Freedom's Stripes and Stars! A sudden burst of smoke and flame, from many a thundering gun, Proclaimed, along the echoing hills, the conflict had begun; While shot and shell athwart the stream with fiendish fury sped, To strew among the living lines the dying and the dead! Then, louder than the roaring storm, pealed forth the stern command, "Charge! soldiers, charge!" and, at the word, with shouts, a fearless band, Two hundred heroes from Vermont, rushed onward, through the flood, And upward, o'er the rising ground, they marked their way in blood! The smitten foe before them fled, in terror, from his postWhile, unsustained, two hundred stood, to battle with a host! Then, turning, as the rallying ranks, with murderous fire, replied, They bore the fallen o'er the field, and through the purple tide! The fallen! life And the first who fell in that unequal strife Mercy sped to save when Justice claimed his The pardoned soldier! And, while yet the conflict raged aroundWhile yet his life-blood ebbed away through every gaping wound While yet his voice grew tremulous, and death bedimmed his eye He called his comrades to attest, he had not feared to die! THE ROMANCE OF NICK VAN STANN.-SAXE. I CANNOT Vouch my tale is true, I think you'll find it fairly told. A Frenchman, who had ne'er before At length our eager tourist stands *Niet verstaan-I don't understand. "Thanks!" said the Gaul, "the owner's taste Is equally superb and chaste; So fine a house, upon my word, Not even Paris can afford. With statues, too, in every niche, Of course, Monsieur Van Stann is rich, In Amsterdam the Frenchman meets Next day, our tourist chanced to pop To hear again the hackneyed phrase ! Faith! he's the luckiest of men! |