He grasped my hand right heartily,

The flush was on his cheek,

And tears stood in his manly eyes,
His voice was hoarse and weak.

"He thanked me for all I had doneI know his every word—

And then he took from round my waist, My tried and trusty sword.

He said that I must give it him,

For it had ne'er been raised, Save in the cause of libertyWith joy I was nigh crazed!

"He gave me his own trusty blade,
That oft had led the free,
And told me I must wear it for
The sake of Harry Lee.

Ah! boy, that was a happy night,
For proud he well might be,

Who e'er deserved such heartfelt praise
From gallant Harry Lee!

"I wore this blade all through the war, And when the storm was o'er,

I kept it bright and free from rust,
As in the days of yore;

And when the clouds came down again
Upon our skies so bright,

I buckled on this blade again,

And wore it through the fight.

“And when the soft, sweet Southern breeze, From tropic regions far,

Came laden with the clang of arms,

And thrilling notes of war,

I took the old sword from its place,
With tears of honest pride,
And buckled it all fiercely by
Your gallant father's side.

"He bore it manfully and well
In regions far away.

It flashed o'er Palo Alto's plains,
And sunny Monterey.

It never was laid down in shame,
I ne'er may see
God grant
One base, foul blot upon the blade
Of dear old Harry Lee!

"Now, boy, I draw this sword again, Alas! that it must be,

That I must count as foes the sons

Of those who fought with me.

My limbs are old and feeble now,
And silv'ry is my hair:

I cannot wield this sword, and so
I give it to your care.

"To-day I saw your noble chief,*
And ah! I seemed to see,
Erect again before me stand,
The form of Harry Lee-
That same bright eye, that noble form,
That bearing light and free ;
Ah! yes, he's like his noble sire,
This son of Harry Lee!

"I'm thankful, boy, he'll lead you on To the wild battle-field,

For his father's heart within him beats, And never will he yield.

Stand by your Gen'ral to the last,

Obey his every word,

And yield your life before you dare
To yield his father's sword.

"Now go, and do your duty, boy, You bear no craven's name,

*General Robert E. Lee.

And as

you dread your grandsire's curse, Ne'er sully it with shame.

And I, as long as life shall last,

Within this bosom free,

Will ask God's blessing on you-and
The son of Harry Lee."
Vicksburgh, Mississippi.

A NATIONAL TRIO.

HOLT-SCOTT-ANDERSON.

HOLT.

AN oaken strength has this curt Saxon name, Befitting well thy puissant manliness of will, Thou patriot-statesman, whose high deeds shall

thrill

Far future as the passing time, when Fame
Shall blazon thee, and thankful millions claim
Kinship with thy brave heart, and eyelids fill
As pulses tremble at the wreckful ill
A staunch soul's hardiment so helped to tame.
Thy stalwart arm, grasping th' unmastered helm
From the vain captain's faithless, faltering hand,
As impious billows gathered black to whelm
In treason's dim abyss our mighty land,

By lordship saved the storm-struck towering realm, Righting beneath thy swayful true command.

SCOTT.

Winfield thy prophet-parents called thee, Scott;
And now, at climax of delight, they fold
Thee in celestial vision, and behold
Their warrior win his highest field; for not
Canadian laurels 'twas thy youthful lot
To reap victorious, nor thy wreaths of gold
Inwove with Aztec palm, will e'er be rolled
With such sonorous hymn from trumpets hot
With fame's fresh breathing, as thy present deeds,
Baffling the blackest treason ever hatched
In the foul nests where brood the godless greeds,
Its crime foiled by a steadfast eye, that watched
Thy perilled country, and its dread needs
With duteous mastership from ruin snatched.

ANDERSON.

Glad lightning, on his myriad-footed steed,
Sped o'er the land, as happiest angels ride
On blissful errands, and, through the flood tide
Of fiery syllables, thy sudden deed

Poured on the nation's troubled heart such seed
Of power, the flagging pulse leaped in its side,