When the battle-field is silent, You can go with careful tread, Do not then stand idly waiting She will never come to you. OH, THE ISLE OF LONG AGO. H, a wonderful stream is the river of Time, How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, And the year in the sheaf-so they come and they go, There's a magical isle up the river of Time, And the Junes with the roses are staying. And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago, There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow— There are fragments of song that nobody sings, There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; And the garments that she used to wear. There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore By the mirage is lifted in air; And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the river is fair. Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle, B. F. TAYLOR. THE DIFFICULTY OF RHYMING. WE parted by the gate in June, That soft and balmy month, Beneath the sweetly beaming moon, And (wonth-hunth-sunth-bunth-I can't find a rhyme to month). Years were to pass ere we should meet; A wide and yawning gulf Divides me from my love so sweet, While (ulf-sulf-dulf-mulf-stuck again; I can't get any rhyme to gulf. I'm in a gulf myself). Oh! how I dreaded in my soul To part from my sweet nymph, While years should their long seasons roll have to let it go at that). Beneath my fortune's stern decree My lonely spirits sunk, For I a weary soul should be And a (hunk-dunk-runk-sk-That will never do in the world). She buried her dear lovely face Within her azure scarf, She knew I'd take the wretchedness As well as (parf-sarf-darf-harf-and-harf That won't answer either). Oh, I had loved her many years, I loved her for herself; I loved her for her tender tears, And also for her (welf-nelf-helf-pelf-no, no; not for her pelf). I took between my hands her head, How sweet her lips did pouch! I kissed her lovingly and said— (bouch-mouch-louch-ouch; not a bit of it did I say ouch!) I sorrowfully wrung her hand, My sorrow I could not command, And I was but a (sape-dape-fape-ape; well, perhaps, I did feel like an ape). I gave to her a fond adieu, Sweet pupil of love's school; I told her I would e'er he true, And always be a (dool-sool-mool-fool; since I come to think of it, I was a fool, for she fell in love with another fellow, before I was gone a month). YOU PUT NO FLOWERS ON MY PAPA'S GRAVE. WITH WITH sable-draped banners, and slow-measured tread, The flower-laden ranks pass the gates of the dead; And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom on his breast. Ended at last is the labor of love; Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief, Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief; "Oh! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave- His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot, You may not have seen it. For my poor heart would there, Oh, say you did not! And thought him too lowly your offerings to share. If mamma were here-but she lies by his side, "Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried the chief, "This way, it is—here, sir—right under this tree; "Halt! Cover with roses each lowly green moundA love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground." "Oh! thank you, kind sir! I ne'er can repay The kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day; But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live, 'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give. I shall see papa soon, and dear mamma tooI dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true; And they will both bless you, I know, when I say How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day |