As memory's feeling fount hath stirred, Have told him what he might have been Go to my mother's side, And her crushed spirit cheer; Thine own deep anguish hide, Wipe from her cheek the tear; Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow, And led her down from love and light, From all that made her pathway bright, Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know Tell me I hate the bowl,- I loathe, abhor, my very soul BUGLE SONG.-ALFRED TENNYSON. The splendor falls on castle walls The long light shakes across the lakes, Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying: Oh hark, oh hear! how thin and clear, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! O love, they die in yon rich sky, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, GENERAL GRANT TO THE ARMY.-1865. Sadiers of the Armies of the United States! By your patriotic devotion to your country in the hour of danger and alarm, your magnificent fighting, bravery, and endurance, you nave maintained the supremacy of the Union and the Constitution, overthrown all armed opposition to the enforcement of the laws, and of the proclamations forever abolishing Slavery—the cause and pretext of the rebellion --and opened the way to the rightful authorities, to restore order and inaugurate peace on a permanent and enduring basis on every foot of American soil. Your marches, sieges, and battles, in distance, duration, resolution, and brilliancy of results, dim the luster of the world's past military achievements, and will be the patriot's precedent in defence of liberty and the right in all time to come. In obedience to your country's call, you left your homes and families and volunteered in its defence. Victory has crowned your valor and secured the purpose of your patriotic hearts; and with the gratitude of your countrymen and the highest honors a great and free nation can accord, you will soon be permitted to return to your homes and families, conscious of having discharged the highest duty of American citizens. To achieve these glorious triumphs, and to secure to yourselves, your countrymen, and posterity, the Llessings of free institutions, tens of thousands of your gallant comrades have fallen and sealed the priceless legacy with their lives. The graves of these a grateful nation bedews with tears, honors their memories, and will ever cherish and support their stricken families. THE FARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR. A counsel in the "Common Pleas," Who was esteemed a mighty wit, In bullying, bantering, browbeating, So having tipped the wink to those Who kept their laughter bottled down, And went to work. "Well, Farmer Numskull, how go calves at York?" "Why-not, sir, as they do wi' you; But on four legs instead of two." "Officer," cried the legal elf, Piqued at the laugh against himself, "Do, pray, keep silence down below there! Now look at me, clown, and attend, Have I not seen you somewhere, friend?" "Our rustic's waggish, quite laconic," This genius of the clods, when I On circuit was at York residing. In the West Riding?" "Why no, sir, no! we've got our share, THERE'S BUT ONE PAIR OF STOCKINGS TO MEND An old wife sat by her bright fireside, In an easy chair, whose creaky craw While down by her side, on the kitchen floor, Stood a basket of worsted balls—a score. The good man dozed o'er the latest news Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair, But anon, a misty tear drop came In her eyes of faded blue, Then trickled down in a furrow deep Like a single drop of dew; So deep was the channel-so silent the stream That the good man saw naught but the dimmed eve beam Yet marveled he much that the cheerful light Of her eye had heavy grown, And marveled he more at the tangled balls, So he said in a gentle tone: "I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow, Conceal not from me thy sorrows now." Then she spoke of the time when the basket there Was filled to the very brim; And now, there remained of the goodly pile But a single pair--for him; "Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light, There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night. "I cannot but think of the busy feet, Whose wrappings were wont to lay In the basket, awaiting the needle's time- How the sprightly steps to a mother dear, "For each empty nook in the basket old "Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight, ""Twas said that far through the forest wild, Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves "Another went forth on the foaming wave, But his feet grew cold-so weary and cold, And this nook, in its emptiness, seemeth to me "Two others have gone toward the setting sun, And fairy fingers have taken their share Some other basket their garments will fill- "Another-the dearest, the fairest, the best- And clad in a garment that waxeth not old, Oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light, When I mend the one pair of stockings to night." |