THE LAST TOAST.
'Quick! fill up our glasses, comrade true!
I hear the reveille,' he fainting said;
'O brave McClellan! I drink to you!'
His glass lay broken—the soldier was dead.
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-TWO.
Alone at her window a maiden sat,
And toward the South looked she,
Over the field, over the flood,
Over the restless sea.
My Love, she said, he wanders far,
He may not come to me.
To and fro, to and fro,
Sweeps the tide in ebb and flow:
You and I, ah! well we know
How hope and fear may come and go.
With folded hands the maiden sat;
Her work beside her lay;
She saw the dusty, lengthening miles,
A weary, weary way,
Dullest links of a leaden chain,
Unfolding, day on day.
To and fro, to and fro,
Breaking waves in restless flow:
You and I, ah! well we know
How hope and fear may come and go.
My Love, she said, he wanders far
Over the Southern sea;
Nor Paris gay, nor ancient Rome,
Could keep my love from me.
The good ship drives through the misty night
With the black rocks under the lea.
To and fro, to and fro,
Winter storms may come and go:
You and I, ah! well we know
Hope of good and fear of woe.
I would, she said, I were by his side,
Fighting on sea and land;
Harder by far the folded hands,
Than in battle light to stand—
Stand with the faithful knights of God,
Afar on the Southern sand.
To and fro, to and fro,
Spring may come, but spring must go:
You and I, ah! well we know
Change is stamped on all below.
My Love, she said, is every man
Who girds him for the fight,
By fortressed coast or Western wood,
To battle for the Right.
Be still, my heart, the end is sure;
From darkness cometh light.
To and fro, to and fro,
The watchful sentries come and go:
You and I, ah! well we know
Rifle-shot of unseen foe.
I glory with my Love, she said,
My heart beats quick and high
When captured fort or well-fought field
Echoes the victor cry
Of those who know 'like men to live,
Or hero-like to die.'
To and fro, to and fro,
Summer's smiles and winter's snow:
You and I, ah! well we know
Faith may fail and doubt may grow.
I mourn my Love with bitter tears,
Lying on many a plain;
Above him sighs the winter wind
And weeps the summer rain—
The nation's holy ground, where low
Her martyr sons are lain.
To and fro, to and fro,
Man must reap as well as sow:
You and I, ah! well we know
Grain shall to the ripening grow.
Though long miles lie between, I stand
Beside my Love, she said;
No couch of roses, wet with dew,
The wounded soldier's bed,
When fever-flushes, crown of thorns,
Rest on the martyr's head.
Soft and low, soft and low,
Woman's footsteps come and go:
You and I, ah! well we know
Woman's love and woman's woe.
With folded hands the maiden sat,
And toward the South looked she,
Over the field, over the flood,
Over the restless sea.
And I shall go to my love, she said,
Though he may not come to me.
To and fro, to and fro,
Sweeps the tide in ebb and flow:
You and I, ah! well we know
Death brings peace to all below.
FLOWER-ARRANGING.
I want to speak of the art of arranging flowers. Of the art, I say, for it is one. Do any of my readers comprehend the fact? They certainly would, had they dawdled away hours more than grave moralists would approve, fussing with me over the darlings of garden and greenhouse.
Don't come to the conclusion now, that I am in the habit of making up those small, round, or flat, stiff bouquets to be obtained for a compensation (not slight) from market-gardeners and the like. I repudiate the artificialities! Who wants camellias tied on false stems? Who would be thankful for such a mosaic of 'nature's gems'? Mosaic, that's the word exactly for such French bouquets. And gems, in truth, far too stony in their setting for blithe springing blossoms! I'll have nothing to do with such abominations.
No; I mean by the 'art of flower-arranging' that process by which the various characteristics of flowers are brought out and combined according to artistic rules. Does this sound metaphysical or—æsthet-i-cal? Why is the effect produced by the 'bunch of posies' stuck clumsily into a broken-nosed pitcher on the kitchen window-sill, different from that of the same carefully disposed in an elegant receptacle on the drawing-room table? The nosegay is bright and fragrant in either place. Why then do not the plebeian and patrician bouquets equally please? In the one case, you say, the charms are inharmoniously dispersed, and nearly neutralized by meaner surroundings, while in the other they are enhanced by every advantage of position and appropriate accessories. Should you not be grateful, then, for the working of my theory of development and manifestation? Would you now like to understand a little its operation?