But generations have passed away, and mourners and mourned have sunk together into forgetfulness. The aged crone, or the smooth-tongued beadle, as now he hurries you through aisles and chapel, utters, with measured cadence and unmeaning tone, for the thousandth time, the name and lineage of the once honored dead; and then gladly dismisses you, to repeat again his well-conned lesson to another group of idle passers-by. Such, in its most august form, is all the immortality that matter can confer. It is by what we ourselves have done, and not by what others have done for us, that we shall be remembered by after ages. It is by thought that has aroused my intellect from its slumbers, which has "given luster to virtue, and dignity to truth," or by those examples which have inflamed my soul with the love of goodness, and not by means of sculptured marble, that I hold communion with Shakspeare and Milton, with Johnson and Burke, with Howard and Wilberforce. THE WOUNDED SOLDIER. Steady, boys, steady! Keep your arms ready, God only knows whom we may meet here. Don't let me be taken I'd rather awaken To-mor:ow in-no matter where, Than lie in that foul prison-hole-over there. Speak lowly! The rocks may have life; Lay me down in the hollow; We are out of the strife. By heaven! the foeman may track me in blood, Well! well! I am rough, 'tis a very rough school, I know a brave man, and a friend from a foe; When they came down the hill over sloughing and sand? But we stood-did we not ?-like immovable rock, Unheeding their balls and repelling their shock. Did you mind the loud cry, Our men sprang upon them determined to die— God help the wretches who fell in the fight; Huzza! Great heaven! this bullet-hole gapes like a grave; A curse on the aim of the traitorous knave! Is there never a one of you knows how to pray, Pray! Pray! Our Father! our Father! why don't you proceed? Can't you see I am dying? Great God, how I bleed! Ebbing away! Ebbing away! The light of the day is turning to gray. Pray! Pray! Our Father in Heaven-boys, tell me the rest, There's something about the forgiveness of sin; I'll follow your words and say an amen, Here, Morris, oid fellow, get hold of my hand, And were scattered like mist by our brave little crowd? Where's Wilson-my comrade-here, stoop down your head, Can't you say a short prayer for the dying and dead? "Christ-God, who died for sinners all, Hear thou this suppliant wanderer's cry; Throw wide thy gates to let him in, And quiet all his fierce alarms.” God bless you, my comrade, for singing that hymn, It is light to my path now my sight has grown din I am dying-bend down-till I touch you once more; Don't forget me, old fellow-God prosper this war! Confusion to enemies !-keep hold of my handAnd float our dear flag o'er a prosperous land! A SIMILAR CASE. Jack, I hear you've gone and done it. I suppose you left the ball-room Well, you walked along together— And I'll bet-old man, confess it- So you strolled along the terrace, Till at length you gathered courage, That you loved her? So did I. Mell, I needn't ask you further, And you're settled down, we'll try What? The deuce you say! Rejected,-so was I. LONG AS THE TIDE SHALL FLOW. BYRON W. KING. Long as the tide shall flow, And stretch forth eager hand, And murmur names on trembling lips, Long as the tide shall flow, With painful, solemn tread, Shall mourners bring their dead, With chant and prayer and mournful hymn, Long as the tide shall flow Shall heart to heart be knit; And over scoff and blow, Love, strong, pure, infinite, Shall triumph in that mighty faith Long as the tide shall flow. |