Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless, And they caught the sound at last; Faint and far beyond the Goomtee Rose and fell the piper's blast! Then a burst of wild thanksgiving Mingled woman's voice and man's: "God be praised! — the march of Havelock! The piping of the clans !" Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, Came the wild MacGregor's clan call, Stinging all the air to life. But when the far-off dust cloud To plaided legions grew, Round the silver domes of Lucknow, O'er the cruel roll of war drums Rose that sweet and homelike strain; And the tartan clove the turban, As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. Dear to the corn-land reaper Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch O'er mountain, glen, and glade; The Pipes at Lucknow played ! DEFINITIONS. Plăid'ed, referring to the peculiar dress of the Scotch Highlanders. Lõeh, a lake in Scotland. Se'poy, a native of India engaged in the English service. (It was the Sepoys who were now in rebellion.) Tär'tan, woolen cloth checkered or plaided, worn much by the Highlanders; here used to denote the Highlanders themselves. NOTE. The Goomtee is the river on the banks of which the city of Lucknow is built. THE LAST GRAND REVIEW. BY T. DEWITT TALMAGE. Never was there a more tremendous spectacle than when, at the close of the war, our armies came back and marched in review before the President's stand at Washington. It made no difference whether a man was a Republican or a Democrat, a Northern man or a Southern man, if he had any emotion of nature, he could not look upon that spectacle without weeping. God knew that the day was stupendous, and He cleared the heaven of cloud and mist and chill, and spread the blue sky as a triumphal arch for the returning warriors to pass under. From Arlington Heights, the spring foliage shook out its welcome, as the hosts came over the hills, and the sparkling waters of the Potomac tossed their gold to the feet of the battalions, as they came to the Long Bridge, and, in almost interminable line, passed over. The Capitol never seemed so majestic as that morning, snowy white, looking down upon the tides of men that came surging down, billow after billow. They passed in silence, yet we heard in every step the thunder of conflicts through which they had waded, and seemed to see dripping from their smoke-blackened flags the blood of our country's martyrs. For the best part of two days we stood and watched the filing on of what seemed endless battalions: brigade after brigade, division after division, host after host, rank beyond rank; ever moving, ever passing; marching, marching; tramp, tramp, tramp -thousands after thousands, battery front, columns solid, shoulder to shoulder, wheel to wheel, charger to charger. Commanders on horses with their manes entwined with roses, and necks enchained with garlands, fractious at the shouts that rang along the line, increasing from the clapping of children clothed in white, standing on the steps of the Capitol, to the tumultuous vociferation of hundreds of thousands of enraptured multitudes. Gleaming muskets, thundering parks of artillery, rumbling pontoon wagons, ambulances from whose wheels seemed to sound out the groans of the crushed and the dying that they had carried. These men came from balmy Minnesota; those, from Illinois prairies; these were often hummed to sleep by the pines of Oregon; those were New England lumbermen; those came out of the coal shafts of Pennsylvania. Side by side in one great cause, consecrated through fire and storm and darkness, brothers in peril, on their way home from Chancellorsville and Kenesaw Mountain and Fredericksburg, in lines that seemed infinite they passed on. We gazed and wept and wondered, lifting up our heads to see if the end had come. But no looking from one end of that long avenue to the other, we saw them yet in solid column, battery front, host beyond host, wheel to wheel, charger to charger, coming as it were from under the Capitol. Their bayonets caught in the sun, glimmered and flashed and blazed, till they seemed like one long river of silver that ever and anon changed into a river of fire. No end to the procession: no rest for the eyes. We turned our heads from the scene, unable longer to look. We felt disposed to stop our ears; but still we heard it, marching, marching, marching; tramp, tramp, tramp. But hush! Uncover every head! Here they pass, the remnant of ten men of a once full regiment! Silence! Widowhood and orphanage look on and wring their hands. But wheel into line, all ye people! North, South, East, West,—all decades, all centuries, all millenniums! Forward the whole line! DEFINITIONS. - Spěc'ta cle, a remarkable or noteworthy sight. Stūpen'dous, wonderful, grand. Tri ŭm'phal, in honor of victory. Bặt tăl'ions, companies of soldiers. A non, now and again. Dec'ades, periods of ten years. Mil lĕn'nă umş, periods of a thousand years. THE HERO IN GRAY. BY HENRY W. GRADY. Some of you saw, and all of us have heard of the grand review of the Northern army at the close of the war. How in the pomp and circumstance of war they came back, marching with proud and victorious tread, reading their glory in a nation's eyes. But there was another army that sought its home at the close of the late war: an army that marched home in defeat and not in victory; in pathos and not in splendor; but in glory that equaled theirs, and to hearts as loving as ever welcomed heroes home. Picture to yourself the footsore Confederate soldier, as, buttoning up in his faded gray jacket the parole which was to bear testimony to his children of his fidelity and faith, he turned his face southward from Appomattox, in April, 1865. Think of him as ragged, half starved, heavy-hearted, enfeebled by want and wounds, having fought to exhaustion, he surrenders his gun, wrings the hands of his comrades in silence, and lifting his tearstained and pallid face for the last time to the graves that dot the old Virginia hills, pulls his gray cap over his brow and begins the slow and painful journey. What does he find let me ask you, who went to your homes eager to find in the welcome you had justly earned, full payment for four years' sacrifice - what does he find when he reaches the home he left so prosperous and beau He finds his house in ruins, his farm devastated, his slaves free, his stock killed, his barns empty, his trade destroyed, his money worthless; his social system, feudal in its magnificence, swept away; his people without law or legal status, his comrades slain, and the burdens of others heavy on his shoulders. What does he do this hero in gray with a heart of gold? Does he sit down in sullenness and despair? Not for a day. Surely God, who had stripped him of his prosperity, inspired him in his adversity. As ruin was never before so overwhelming, never was restoration swifter. The soldier stepped from the trenches into the furrow; horses that had charged Federal guns marched before the plow; and fields that ran red with human blood in April were green with the harvest in June. Never was nobler duty confided to human hands than the uplifting and upbuilding of the prostrate and |