when peace is restored, when slavery is destroyed, when the Union is cemented afresh-for I would say, in the language of one of our own poets addressing his country,

"The grave's not dug where traitor hands shall lay,

In fearful haste, thy murdered corpse away"—

then Europe and England may learn that an instructed democracy is the surest foundation of government, and that education and freedom are the only sources of true greatness and true happiness among any people.

Through the green plain they marching came!
Measureless spread, like a table dread,
For the wild grim dice of the iron game.
Looks are bent on the shaking ground,
Hearts beat low with a knelling sound;
Swift by the breast that must bear the brunt,
Gallops the major along the front:

"Halt!"

And fettered they stand at the stark command,

And the warriors, silent, halt!

See the smoke, how the lightning is cleaving asunder!

Hark! the guns, peal on peal, how they boom in their thunder!

From host to host, with kindling sound,

The shouting signal circles round:

Ay, shout it forth to life or death,
Freer already breathes the breath!
The war is waging, slaughter is raging,
And heavy through the reeking pall
The iron death-dice fall!

Nearer they close-foes upon foes;
"Ready!"-from square to square it goes.
The dead men lie bathed in the weltering blood;
And the living are blent in the slippery flood,

And the feet, as they reeling and sliding go,
Stumble still on the corpses that sleep below.

"What! Francis!"-"Give Charlotte my last farewell."
As the dying man murmurs, the thunders swell:
"I'll give-O God! are their guns so near?

Ho! comrades!-yon volley!-Look sharp to the rear!
I'll give thy Charlotte thy last farewell;

Sleep soft! where death thickest descendeth in rain,
The friend thou forsakest thy side may regain!"
Hitherward, thitherward reels the fight;

Dark and more darkly day glooms into night.
Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er,
In the life to come that we meet once more!

Hark to the hoofs that galloping go!
The adjutants flying-

The horsemen press hard on the panting foe,
Their thunder booms, in dying —

Victory!

Terror has seized on the dastards all,
And their colors fall!

Victory!

Closed is the brunt of the glorious fight!
And the day, like a conqueror, bursts on the night.
Trumpet and fife swelling choral along,

The triumph already sweeps marching in song.
Farewell, fallen brothers; though this life be o'er,
There's another, in which we shall meet you once more!

HE

HEROES AND MARTYRS.

EROES and martyrs! they are the men of the hour. They are identified with the names that live upon the lips of millions. It is of these, more than all others, that the people talk, around their firesides and in their assemblies. It is of these that we may freely speak, even in the sanctuary. Our heroes and martyrs! a cloud of witnesses for the spirit and worth of the nation. Our heroes! named in the homes of all who have left home and occupation, comfort and kindred, and stood in the

midst of the battle; - presented to us in glorious clusters on many a deck and field. An entire discourse might be made up of instances. Our memories run backward and forward through this war, collecting files of illustrious deeds. We remember the man who covered the threatened powder with his body—the gunner who, bleeding to death, seized the lanyard, fired his cannon, and fell back dead - the gallant captain, who, when his artillerymen were killed and himself left alone, sat calmly down upon his piece, and, with revolver in hand, refusing to fly, fought to the end, and died the last man at his gun - the old Massachusetts 2d at Gettysburg, who, in the fierce fighting on the right, on the morning of the third of July, had their commanding officer killed at the head of the regiment, and five standard-bearers shot down in succession; but the colors dropped by one were grasped by another, and never touched the ground. These are instances, hastily gathered from glorious sheaves-not exceptional, but representative instances. These are the men of the hour, who illustrate the value of our country by the richest crop that has ever sprung from her soil.

But where the hero stands, there also the martyr dies. With the chorus of victory blends the dirge-mournful, and yet majestic too. The burden of that dirge, as it falls from the lips of wives and mothers, of fathers and children, is sad and tender, like the strain of David weeping for those who fell upon Gilboa. That burden is still mournful; but as it passes on and reissues from a nation's lips, it swells also into exultation and honorthat same burden - "How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle!"

Some of us, perhaps, have read of that company whom their brave officer had so often conducted to victory, and who would never part with their dead hero's name. Still day by day, at the head of the regimental roll, it is called aloud: the generation that loved him have passed away; but their sons and their sons' sons will ever and always love the honored name. "Cornet Latour D'Auvergne" still first of the brave band is summoned; and ever and always a brave soldier steps from the ranks to reply: "Dead on the field of honor!"

"Dead on the field of honor!" This, too, is the record of thousands of unnamed men, whose influence upon other generations is associated with no personal distinction, but whose sacri

fices will lend undying lustre to the nation's archives and richer capacity to the nation's life. And yet these martyrs are remembered by name. Go visit the mourning homes of the land— homes of wealth and plenty, some of them, but richer now by the consecration of sacrifice. Many are homes of toil and obscurity, from which the right hand of support has been taken, or the youthful prop. Poor and obscure; but these, the unknown fallen, have names, and riches of solemn, tender memory. And what heralding on palatial wall more glorious than the torn cap and soiled uniforms that hang in those homes where the dead soldier comes no more? What aristocratic legend refers to a prouder fact than that which shall often be recited in the still summer field where he labored, and by the winter fireside where his place is vacant: "He fell in the great war for Union and for Freedom!"

Sleep, sleep, in quiet grassy graves, where the symbols that ye loved so well shall cover and spread over you - by day the flowers of red, white, and blue, and by night the constellated stars while out of those graves there grows the better harvest of the nation and of times to come!

I

THE UNBELIEVER.

PITY the unbeliever one who can gaze upon the grandeur, and glory, and beauty of the natural universe, and behold not the touches of His finger, who is over, and with, and above all; from my very heart I do commiserate his condition.

The unbeliever! one whose intellect the light of revelation never penetrated; who can gaze upon the sun, and moon, and stars, and upon the unfading and imperishable sky, spread out so magnificently above him, and say all this is the work of chance. The heart of such a being is a drear and cheerless void. In him, mind the god-like gift of intellect, is debased-destroyed; all is dark- a fearful chaotic labyrinth-rayless-cheerless hopeless!

No gleam of light from heaven penetrates the blackness of the horrible delusion; no voice from the Eternal bids the desponding heart rejoice. No fancied tones from the harps of seraphim

arouse the dull spirit from its lethargy, or allay the consuming fever of the brain. The wreck of mind is utterly remediless; reason is prostrate; and passion, prejudice, and superstition have reared their temple on the ruins of his intellect.

I pity the unbeliever. What to him is the revelation from on high but a sealed book? He sees nothing above, or around, or beneath him that evinces the existence of a God; and he denies yea, while standing on the footstool of Omnipotence, and gazing upon the dazzling throne of Jehovah, he shuts his intellect to the light of reason, and denies there is a God.

IT

IT SNOWS.

T snows!" cries the school-boy, "hurrah!" and his shout
Is ringing through parlor and hall,

While swift as the wing of a swallow, he's out,

And his playmates have answered his call:

It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy;
Proud wealth has no pleasure, I trow,

Like the rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy,
As he gathers his treasures of snow:

Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs,
While health and the riches of nature are theirs.

"It snows!" sighs the invalid, "ah!" and his breath
Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight;

While from the pale aspect of nature in death,
He turns to the blaze of his grate;

And nearer and nearer his soft-cushioned chair
Is wheeled toward the life-giving flame;
He dreads a chill puff of the snow-burdened air,
Lest it wither his delicate frame:

Oh! small is the pleasure existence can give,
When the fear we shall die only proves that we live!

"It snows!" cries the traveller, "ho!" and the word
Has quickened his steed's lagging pace;

The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard,
Unfelt the sharp drift in his face;