* * * * *
HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE.
How sleep the brave who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!
WILLIAM COLLINS.
* * * * *
OUR FALLEN HEROES.
The angel of the nation's peace
Has wreathed with flowers the battle-drum;
We see the fruiting fields increase
Where sound of war no more shall come.
The swallow skims the Tennessee,
Soft winds play o'er the Rapidan;
There only echo notes of glee,
Where gleamed a mighty army's van!
Fair Chattanooga's wooded slope
With summer airs is lightly stirred,
And many a heart is warm with hope
Where once the deep-mouthed gun was heard.