'Twas spring. Within a verdant vale, where Warwick's crystal

tide

Reflected, o'er its peaceful breast, fair fields on either side— Where birds and flowers combined to cheer a sylvan solitude— Two threatening armies, face to face, in fierce defiance stood !

Two threatening armies! one invoked by injured Liberty-
Which bore above its patriot ranks the Symbol of the Free;
And one, a rebel horde, beneath a flaunting flag of bars,
A fragment, torn by traitorous hands, from Freedom's Stripes
and Stars!

A sudden burst of smoke and flame, from many a thundering

gun,

Proclaimed, along the echoing hills, the conflict had begun; While shot and shell athwart the stream with fiendish fury sped, To strew among the living lines the dying and the dead!

Then, louder than the roaring storm, pealed forth the stern command,

Charge! soldiers, charge!" and, at the word, with shouts, a fearless band,

Two hundred heroes from Vermont, rushed onward, through the

flood,

And upward, o'er the rising ground, they marked their way in

blood!

The smitten foe before them fled, in terror, from his postWhile, unsustained, two hundred stood, to battle with a host! Then, turning, as the rallying ranks, with murderous fire, replied, They bore the fallen o'er the field, and through the purple tide!

The fallen! And the first who fell in that unequal strife Was he whom Mercy sped to save when Justice claimed his life

The pardoned soldier! And, while yet the conflict raged aroundWhile yet his life-blood ebbed away through every gaping wound

While yet his voice grew tremulous, and death bedimmed his

eye

He called his comrades to attest, he had not feared to die!
And, in his last expiring breath, a prayer to Heaven was sent-
That God, with His unfailing grace, would bless our President!

THE ROMANCE OF NICK VAN STANN.—Saxe.

I CANNOT Vouch my tale is true,
Nor swear, indeed, 'tis wholly new;
But true or false, or new or old,

I think

you 'll find it fairly told.

A Frenchman, who had ne'er before
Set foot upon a foreign shore,
Weary of home, resolved to go
And see what Holland had to show.
He didn't know a word of Dutch,
But that could hardly grieve him much;
He thought as Frenchmen always do—
That all the world could "parley-voo!"

At length our eager tourist stands
Within the famous Netherlands,
And, strolling gaily here and there
In search of something rich or rare,
A lordly mansion greets his eyes;
"How beautiful!" the Frenchman cries,
And, bowing to the man who sate
In livery at the garden-gate,
"Pray, Mr. Porter, if you please,

Whose very charming grounds are these?
And-pardon me-be pleased to tell
Who in this splendid house may dwell?"
To which, in Dutch, the puzzled man
Replied what seemed like "Nick Van Stann.":

* Niet verstaan-I don't understand.

"Thanks!" said the Gaul, "the owner's taste Is equally superb and chaste;

So fine a house, upon my word,
Not even Paris can afford.

With statues, too, in every niche,

Of course, Monsieur Van Stann is rich,
And lives, I warrant, like a king-
Ah! wealth must be a charming thing!"

In Amsterdam the Frenchman meets
A thousand wonders in the streets,
But most he marvels to behold
A lady dressed in silk and gold.
Gazing with rapture at the dame,
He begs to know the lady's name,
And hears-to raise his wonder more-
The very words he heard before!
"Mercie!" he cries, "well, on my life,
Milord has got a charming wife;
'Tis plain to see, this Nick Van Stann
Must be a very happy man!"

Next day, our tourist chanced to pop
His head within a lottery-shop,
And there he saw, with staring eyes,
The drawing of the Mammoth Prize.
"Ten Millions !-'Tis a pretty sum;
I wish I had as much at home!
I'd like to know, as I'm a sinner,
What lucky fellow is the winner ?"
Conceive our traveller's amaze

To hear again the hackneyed phrase!
"What! No?-not Nick Van Stann again?
Faith! he's the luckiest of men!
You may be sure we don't advance
So rapidly as that in France,
A house, the finest in the land;
A lovely garden, nicely planned;

A perfect angel of a wife,

And gold enough to last a life-
There never yet was mortal man

So blest as Monsieur Nick Van Stann !"

Next day the Frenchman chanced to meet
A pompous funeral in the street,
And asking one who stood near by
What nobleman had pleased to die?
Was stunned to hear the old reply!
The Frenchman sighed and shook his head,
"Mon Dieu! poor Nick Van Stann is dead!
With such a house, and such a wife,
It must be hard to part with life;
And then, to lose that Mammoth Prize.
He wins, and-pop !-the winner dies!
Ah! well-his blessings came so fast,
I greatly feared they couldn't last;
And thus, we see, the sword of Fate
Cuts down alike the small and great!"

AFTER THE BATTLE.

THE drums are all muffled, the bugles are still;
There's a pause in the valley, a halt on the hill;
And bearers of standards swerve back with a thrill
Where sheaves of the dead bar the way;
For a great field is reaped, Heaven's garners to fill,
And stern Death holds his harvest to-day.

There's a voice in the wind like a spirit's low cry;
'Tis the muster-roll sounding-and who shall reply
For those whose wan faces glare white to the sky,

With eyes fixed so steadfast and dimly,

As they wait the last trump, which they may not defy! Whose hands clutch the sword-hilt so grimly.

The brave heads late lifted are solemnly bowed,

As the riderless chargers stand quivering and cowedAs the burial requiem is chanted aloud,

The groans of the death-stricken drowning, While Victory looks on like a queen pale and proud Who awaits till the morning her crowning.

There is no mocking blazon, as clay sinks to clay;
The vain pomps of peace-time are all swept away
In the terrible face of the dread battle-day;
Nor coffins nor shroudings are here;

Only relics that lay where thickest the fray—
A rent casque and a headless spear.

Far away, tramp on tramp, sounds the march of the foe,
Like a storm-wave retreating, spent, fitful and slow;
With sound like their spirits that faint as they go
By the red-glowing river, whose waters

Shall darken with sorrow the land where they flow
To the eyes of her desolate daughters.

They are fled they are gone; but oh! not as they came; In the pride of those numbers they staked on the game, Never more shall they stand in the vanguard of fame,

Never lift the stained sword which they drew; Never more shall they boast of a glorious name, Never march with the leal and the true.

Where the wreck of our legions lay stranded and torn,
They stole on our ranks in the mist of the morn;
Like the giant of Gaza, their strength it was shorn
Ere those mists have rolled up to the sky;"

From the flash of the steel a new day-break seemed born,
As we sprang up to conquer or die.

The tumult is silenced; the death-lots are cast,

And the heroes of battle are slumbering their last:

P