A CHARADE.
My first we wish our dear ones' lives to be,
And all the joys and loves that Hope discloses,
And fairy-tales, and picnics by the sea,
Purses, and golden curls, and times of roses,
And lashes dark, to shade a beauty's glances,
And rides, and sails, and pantomimes, and dances.
My second is the place where thousands meet,
Like ships at sea, who never meet again,—
Fair maids, and soldiers brave, and children sweet,
And ruddy boys, and silver-haired old men;
The surging mob, the monks' procession holy,
Gay bridal trains, and funerals moving slowly.
My whole, he was a Southern leader brave,
Whose flaming sword to Richmond barred the way;
'Mid smoke and shot, he saw his banners wave,
He rode victorious, joying in the fray.
Till fickle Fortune set the hero learning
'Tis a long lane, or street, that knows no turning.
Long-street.