And I knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft

so bright;

For it shone like solid sunshine; and a winding stair of

light

Wound around it and around it till it wound clean out

of sight!

“And, behold, as I approached it — with a rapt and dazzled stare,

Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending the great Stair, Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of - Halt, and who goes there!'

'I'm a friend,' I said, 'if you are.' • Then advance, sir, to the Stair!'

"I advanced!

That sentry, Doctor, was Elijah Ballantyne!

First of all to fall on Monday, after we had formed the line!

'Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome! Welcome by that countersign!

And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak of mine!

As he grasped my hand, I shuddered, thinking only

of the grave;

But he smiled and pointed upward with a bright and bloodless glaive:

'That's the way, sir, to Head-quarters.' • What Head-quarters?' 'Of the Brave.'

'But the great Tower?' 'That was builded of the great deeds of the Brave!'

"Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform

of light;

At my own so old and battered, and at his so new and

bright;

'Ab!' said he, 'you have forgotten the new uniform to-night,

Hurry back, for you must be here at just twelve o'clock to-night!'

“And the next thing I remember, you were sitting there, and I

Doctor did you hear a footstep? Hark! - God bless you all! Good-by!

Doctor, please to give my musket and my knapsack, when I die,

To my son - my son that's coming, he won't get here till I die!

"Tell him his old father blessed him as he never

And to carry that old musket" Hark! a knock is at

the door!

"Till the Union "

See! it opens !

"Father!

Father! speak once more!"

"Bless you! gasped the old, gray Sergeant. And

he lay and said no more!

FORCEYTHE WILLSON.1

1 FORCEYTHE WILLSON was born in Little Genesee, New York, in 1837, and died in Alfred, New York, in 1867 His fame rests wholly on this poem.

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD.

THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere

Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone
In long reverberations reach our own.

before us,

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, And loud, amid the universal clamor,

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin;

The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;

The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals or forts:

The warrior's name would be a name abhorrèd!
And every nation, that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals

The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals,

The holy melodies of love arise.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

BEFORE SEDAN.

HERE, in this leafy place,
Quiet he lies,

Cold, with his sightless face

Turned to the skies;

'Tis but another dead; All you can say is said.

Carry his body hence,

Kings must have slaves;
Kings climb to eminence
Over men's graves:
So this man's eye is dim,
Throw the earth over him.

What was the white you touched,

There, at his side?

Paper his hand had clutched

Tight ere he died;

Message or wish, may be;
Smooth the folds out, and see.

Hardly the worst of us

Here could have smiled!

Only the tremulous

Words of a child,

Prattle, that has for stops

Just a few ruddy drops.

Look She is sad to miss,

Morning and night,

His her dead father's-kiss;

Tries to be bright,