There they stood in the failing light,

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,
As plain to be read as open books,
While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the hillsides was splashed with blood,
And down in the corn where the poppies grew
Were redder stains than the poppies knew ;
And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.

For the foe had crossed from the other side
That day, in the face of a murderous fire
That swept them down in its terrible ire,
And their life-blood went to color the tide.
"Herbert Kline!" At the call there came
Two stalwart soldiers into the line,

Bearing between them this Herbert Kline,
Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

"

'Ezra Kerr !"—and a voice answered, "Here!" "Hiram Kerr!"--but no man replied.

They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed,

And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

"Ephraim Deane !"-then a soldier spoke :

"Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said; "Where our ensign was shot I left him dead, Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

"Close to the roadside his body lies;

I paused a moment and gave him drink;
He murmured his mother's name, I think,
And Death came with it, and closed his eyes."
'Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear,-

For that company's roll, when called at night, Of a hundred men who went into the fight, Numbered but twenty that answered "Here!" N. G. SHEPHERD.

BY CHICKAMAUGA RIVER.

AGAIN the wandering breezes bring
The music of the sheaves;
Again the crickets chirp and sing

Among the golden leaves.

Twelve times the Springs have oped the rills,

Twelve amber Autumns sighed,

Since hung the war-cloud o'er the hills,

The year that Charlie died.

The Springs return; the roses blow,
And croon the bird and bee,

And flutes the ring-dove's love-call low,
Along the Tennessee;

But one dear voice, one cherished tone,
Returns to me-ah, never!

For Charlie fills a grave unknown,

By Chickamauga River.

Kind Nature sets her blossoms there,

And fall the vernal rains;

But we may lay no garlands fair

Above his loved remains.

A white stone marks an empty grave
Our household graves beside,

And his dear name to it we gave
The year that Charlie died.

The winds of Fall were breathing low,

The swallow left the eaves;

We heard the hollow bugles blow,

When fell the harvest sheaves.

And swift the mustering squadrons passed,

We thought of Charlie ever,—

And swift the blue brigades were massed
By Chickamauga River.

Along the mountain spurs we saw
The wreaths of smoke ascend;
And, all the Sabbath day, in awe,

We watched the war-cloud blend
With Fall's cerulean sky, and dim
The wooded mountain side,-
Oh, how our hearts then beat for him,
The year that Charlie died!

How Thomas thundered past, when broke
The wavering echelon !

How down the sky in flame and smoke
Low sunk the copper sun;

The still night came, and who were saved
And who were called to sever,

We could not tell; our banner waved
By Chickamauga River.

And some returned with happy feet;
But never at our door

The fair-haired boy we used to meet
Came back to greet us more.

But memory seems to hear the fall
Of steps at eventide,

And all the changing years recall

The year that Charlie died.

Yet such a gift of God as he

'Tis blessed to have cherished;

And they shall ever stainless be

Who've nobly fought and perished.

He nobly died, and he can know
No dark dishonor ever;

But

green the grass for him shall grow By Chickamauga River.

Again I see the mountains blaze
In Autumn's amber light;
Again I see in shimmering haze
The valleys, long and bright.

Old Lookout Mountain towers afar
As when, in lordly pride,

It plumed its head with flags of war
The year that Charlie died.

On wooded Mission Ridge increase
The fruited fields of Fall,
And Chattanooga sleeps in peace
Beneath her mountain wall.
O Country, free from sea to sea,
With union blest forever,
Not vainly heroes died for thee
By Chickamauga River!

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

THE BATTLE IN THE CLOUDS.

["The day had been one of dense mists and rains, and much of General Hooker's battle was fought above the clouds, on the top of Lookout Mountain."—General Meigs's Report of the Battle before Chattanooga, Nov. 23-25, 1863.]

WHERE the dews and the rains of heaven have their fountain,

Like its thunder and its lightning our brave burst on the foe,

Up above the clouds on Freedom's Lookout Moun

tain

Raining life-blood like water on the valleys down below.

O, green be the laurels that grow,

O, sweet be the wild-buds that blow,

In the dells of the mountain where the brave are lying low.

Light of our hope and crown of our story,

Bright as sunlight, pure as starlight shall their deeds of daring glow,

While the day and the night out of heaven shed their glory,

On Freedom's Lookout Mountain whence they routed Freedom's foe.

O, soft be the gales where they go

Through the pines on the summit where they blow,

Chanting solemn music for the souls that passed

below.

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.

AFTER ALL.

THE apples are ripe in the orchard,
The work of the reaper is done,
And the golden woodlands redden
In the blood of the dying sun.

At the cottage-door the grandsire
Sits pale in his easy-chair,
While the gentle wind of twilight
Plays with his silver hair.

A woman is kneeling beside him;
A fair young head is pressed,
In the first wild passion of sorrow,
Against his aged breast.

And far from over the distance
The faltering echoes come
Of the flying blast of trumpet
And the rattling roll of drum.