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When the battle-field is silent,

You can go with careful tread,
You can bear away the wounded,

You can cover up the dead.

Do not then stand idly waiting

For some greater work to do,
Fortune is a lazy goddess,

She will never come to you.
Go and toil in any vineyard,

Do not fear to do or dare,
If you want a field of labor,

You can find it anywhere.

THE ISLE OF LONG AGO.

nu, a wonderful stream is the river of Time,

As it runs through the realm of tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,

As it blends with the Ocean of Years.

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,

And the summers, like buds between; And the year in the sheaf—so they come and they go, On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,

As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical isle up the river of Time,

Where the softest of airs are playing; There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,

And the Junes with the roses are staying.

And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago,

And we bury our treasures there;
There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow-
There are heaps of dust-but we loved them so !

There are trinkets and tresses of hair ;

There are fragments of song that nobody sings,

And a part of an infant's prayer,
There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings ;
There are broken vows and pieces of rings,

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,

All the day of our life till night-
When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that “Greenwood” of Soul be in sight'

B. F. TAYLOR.

THE DIFFICULTY OF RHYMING.

TE 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 loug seasons roll

Before (hymph—dymph-symph–I guess I'll 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-harfThat 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, ao; 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 tears they did escape,
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.

W ITH sable-draped banners, and slow-measured

W 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; Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child Besought him in accents which grief rendered wild :

“Oh! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave
Why! why! did you pass by my dear papa's grave ?
I know he was poor, but as kind and as true
As ever marched into the battle with you

His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot,
You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not!
For my poor heart would break if you knew he was

there,
And thought him too lowly your offerings to share.
He didn't die lowly-he poured his heart's blood,
In rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sod
Of the breastwork which stood in front of the fight-
And died shouting, ‘Onward ! for God and the right!
O’er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave,
But you haven't put one on my papa's grave.
If mamma were here—but she lies by his side,
Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died.”
“ Battalion! file left! countermarch !" cried the chief,
This young orphaned maid hath full cause for her grief."
Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street,
He lifted the maiden, while in through the gate
The long line repasses, and many an eye
Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh.
“This way, it is—here, sir-right under this tree;
They lie close together, with just room for me.”
“Halt! Cover with roses each lowly green mound-
A 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 too-
I 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

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