It was drawn, and by good fortune for him, Bagswell won the five hundred dollars. Thus Uncle Bill Browne bought one painting for a good round sum, and three others at the stipulated price. Which one of the four had the most work on it, is, however, an unsettled question among three of the artists, to this day.
[FOR THE HOUR OF TRIUMPH]
Victory comes with a palm in her hand,
With laurel upon her brow;
Cypress is clinging about her feet,
But its dark blossoms are red and sweet,
And the weeping mourners bow.
It is well. Through her tears, the widow smiles
To the child upon her knee;
'Thou'rt fatherless, darling; but he fell
Gallantly fighting, and long and well,
For the banner of the free!'
Then, weeping: 'Alas! for my lost, lost love;
Alas! for my own weak heart;
I know, when the storm shall pass away,
My boy, in manhood, would blush to say:
'My blood had therein no part."
The maiden her lover weeps, unconsoled,
So desolate is her gloom;
But a voice falls softly through the air,
Whispering comfort to her despair,
'Love here hath fadeless bloom.'
The father laments for his boy, who fell
By Cumberland's river-side;
The sister, her brother loved the best,
Whose blood, in the dark and troubled West,
The father of waters dyed.
The mother—oh! silence your Spartan tales—
Says bravely, hushing a moan:
'I have yet one left. My boy! go on;
Rear freedom's banner high in the sun!'
Then sits in the house alone.
To die for one's country is sweet, indeed!
To fight for the right is brave;
But there are brave hearts who vainly wait
Till triumph shall find them desolate,
Their hopes in a far-off grave.
O mourners! be patient; the end shall come;
The beautiful years of peace.
Remember! though hearts rebel the while
You hide your tears with a mournful smile,
That tyranny soon shall cease.
For victory comes, a palm in her hand,
Fresh garlands about her brow;
But the cypress trailing under her feet,
With crimson blossoms, by tears made sweet,
Shall wreathe with the laurel now.
[IN TRANSITU]
When the acid meets the alkali,
How they sputter, snap, and fly!
Such a crackling, such a pattering!
Such a hissing, such a spattering!
All in foaming discord tossed,
One would swear that all is lost.
Yet the equivalents soon blend,
All comes right at last i' the end.
Country mine!—'tis so with thee.
Wait—and all will quiet be!
Men, while working out a mission,
Must not fear the fierce transition.