There came a blinding flash, a deafening roar—
And dissonant cries of triumph and dismay;
Blood trickled down the river's reedy shore,
And with the dead he lay.

The morn broke in upon his solemn dreams,
And still, with steady pulse and deepening eye,
"Where bugles call," he said, " and rifles gleam,
I follow, though I die!"

Wise youth! By few is glory's wreath attained;
But death, or late or soon, awaiteth all.

To fight in Freedom's cause is something gained— And nothing lost, to fall.

ELBRIDGE JEFFERSON CUTLER.

THE BURIAL OF LATANÉ.

[Captain Latané, of Stuart's Confederate Cavalry, fell, at the head of his squadron, in the Pamunkey expedition, in Virginia, in 1862. A private letter, written at the time, thus describes his burial: "A few ladies, a fair-haired little girl with her apron filled with white flowers, and a few faithful slaves, stood reverently near while a pious Virginia matron read the solemn and beautiful burial service for the dead."]

THE combat raged not long, but ours the day;
And, through the hosts that compassed us around,
Our little band rode proudly on its way,

Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned,
Unburied on the field he died to gain-
Single of all his men, amid the hostile slain.

One moment on the battle's edge he stood-
Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hair;
The next beheld him, dabbled in his blood,

Prostrate in death--and yet, in death how fair!

Even thus he passed through the red gates of strife,

From earthly crowns and palms, to an immortal life.

A brother bore his body from the field,

And gave it unto strangers' hands, that closed The calm blue eyes, on earth forever sealed, And tenderly the slender limbs composed:

Strangers, yet sisters, who, with Mary's love, Sat by the open tomb, and, weeping, looked above.

A little child strewed roses on his bier

Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul, Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere,

That blossomed with good actions-brief, but whole:

The aged matron and the faithful slave
Approached, with reverent feet, the hero's
lowly grave.

No man of God might say the burial rite
Above the "rebel "-thus declared the foe
That blanched before him in the deadly fight;
But woman's voice, with accents soft and low,
Trembling with pity-touched with pathos-
read

Over his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead.

“'Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power!"
Softly the promise floated on the air,
While the low breathings of the sunset hour
Came back responsive to the mourner's prayer.
Gently they laid him underneath the sod,

And left him with his fame, his country, and
his God!

Let us not weep for him, whose deeds endure!
So young, so brave, so beautiful! He died

As he had wished to die; the past is sure;
Whatever yet of sorrow may betide

Those who still linger by the stormy shore,
Change cannot harm him now, nor fortune
touch him more.

JOHN R. THOMPSON.

KILLED AT THE FORD.

HE is dead, the beautiful youth,

The heart of honor, the tongue of truth—
He, the life and light of us all,

Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,
Whom all eyes followed with one consent,

The cheer of whose laugh and whose pleasant word
Hushed all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night, as we rode along
Down the dark of the mountain gap,

To visit the picket-guard at the ford,

Little dreaming of any mishap,

He was humming the words of some old song: "Two red roses he had on his cap,

And another he bore at the point of his sword."

Sudden and swift, a whistling ball

Came out of a wood, and the voice was still;
Something I heard in the darkness fall,
And for a moment my blood grew chill;
I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks
In a room where some one is lying dead;
But he made no answer to what I said.

We lifted him up on his saddle again,
And through the mire and the mist and the rain
Carried him back to the silent camp,

And laid him as if asleep on his bed;

And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp

Two white roses upon his cheeks,
And one, just over his heart, blood-red.

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet
That fatal bullet went speeding forth,
Till it reached a town in the distant North,
Till it reached a house in a sunny street,
Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat,
Without a murmur, without a cry;

And a bell was tolled in that far-off town
For one who had passed from cross to crown;
And the neighbors wondered that she should die.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE CAPTAIN'S WIFE.

WE gathered roses, Blanche and I, for little Madge one morning;

"Like every soldier's wife," said Blanche," I dread a soldier's fate."

Her voice a little trembled then, as under some forewarning..

A soldier galloped up the lane, and halted at the gate.

"Which house is Malcolm Blake's ?" he cried; a letter for his sister!"

And when I thanked him, Blanche inquired, “But none for me, his wife?"

The soldier played with Madge's curls, and, stooping over, kissed her:

"Your father was my captain, child!—I loved him as my life!"

Then suddenly he galloped off and left the rest unspoken.

I burst the seal, and Blanche exclaimed, "What makes you tremble so ?"

What answer did I dare to speak? How ought the news be broken?

I could not shield her from the stroke, yet tried to ease the blow.

"A battle in the swamps," I said;

brave, but lost it."

66 our men were

And, pausing there-"The note," I said, " is not in Malcolm's hand."

And first a flush flamed through her face, and then a shadow crossed it.

"Read quick, dear May!-read all, I pray-and let me understand!"

I did not read it as it stood-but tempered so the phrases

As not at first to hint the worst-held back the fatal word,

And half retold his gallant charge, his shout, his comrades' praises—

Till like a statue carved in stone, she neither spoke nor stirred!

Oh, never yet a woman's heart was frozen so completely!

So unbaptized with helping tears!—so passionless and dumb!

Spellbound she stood, and motionless-till little Madge spoke sweetly:

"Dear mother, is the battle done? and will my father come?"

I laid my finger on her lips, and set the child to playing.

Poor Blanche! the winter in her cheek was snowy like her name!

What could she do but kneel and pray-and lin

ger at her praying?

O Christ! when other heroes die, moan other wives the same?