Dead! dead! with a death so royal

That our full hearts dare not weep-
Gently lay the true and knightly
To his holy, happy sleep.

It is well our sad blood-offering
Should be so pure a breast,
That the coward's treacherous bullet
Should find this stainless crest.

For among hero saints and martyrs
Now to claim him bending down,
There is none bears a soul more loyal,
None who wears a brighter crown.

Blessed they among the children
Whom dear mother-land has nurst,
Whose joyous blood beneath her banner
Gushes fullest, freest, first.

Wrap the flag he loved about him,

Beside him place his maiden blade,

Fold the cold hands prayerfully
Above the heart in stillness laid.

Happy hero! on the field promoted From colonel's tent to patriot's grave;

Bear to his rest the youthful martyr, Loved of the land he died to save. New-York, May 24, 1861.

RUFUS K. PHELPS.

A

THE DEATH OF ELLSWORTH.

STAR has gone from the firmament, A sword from the altar ruddy; There is silence of death in his fleecy tent And the banner is draped and bloody.

He fell alone, when the town was won;
And the squadrons that breathless found him,
While over the hills broke the early sun,
Saw the flag of the rebels around him.

In the flush of pride, when the blood was high, And the glory of youth upon him,

Still lingered a light in his glassy eye,

And a smile when the death had won him.

How dabbled the skeins of his raven hair!
The broad, high brow, how pallid !

How hushed the bugle of voice; how fair
The lips and the cheeks so calid!

And far away where the downs are white,
And the dew on the prairie gleaming,
While the shimmer of dawn breaks over the night,
A plighted woman is dreaming.

She thinks of a day when the war is still,

And peace, like a river flowing,

And the harvest golden upon the hill,

And the reapers away a-mowing:

How a glossy plume up the lane shall come,
And a spur on the porch shall rattle,
And a voice that deafened the bugle and drum
And ran down the ranks of battle,

Shall tell of perils that lead to fame,

And of souls crushed out in the grapple,
And of soldiers returning, in peace, to claim
Their loves in the village chapel.

Alas! for the love that cannot die;
Alas! for the forms that vanish;

Alas! for the hopes that are flushing high,

And the dreams that the morning banish!

Where the Father of Nations sleeps entombed,
In the willows gray and grouping,

The eagle of battles is raven plumed,
And the flag of the Union drooping.

But the West is pouring her hardy Huns
Where the bayonets flash and glitter,
And the boom of the funeral minute guns
Stir the North clans hot and bitter.

The crape and the dusky plumes are doffed,
The spear and the sabre gleaming,
The trampled banner is raised aloft,
And the eagle is hoarsely screaming.

Her flight is strong as the dash of surge,
And dark as the night her pinion;

The bat and the raven shall make their dirge
In the homes of the Old Dominion.

The young are the brave and dutiful,
The slain are the great in story;
But ghastly the lips of the beautiful,
And the worm is the bride of glory.

GEORGE ALFRED TOWNSEnd.

"EIN' FESTE BURG IST UNSER GOTT."

WE

(Luther's Hymn.)

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

E wait beneath the furnace blast
The pangs of transformation ;
Not painlessly doth God recast
And mould anew the nation.
Hot burns the fire
Where wrongs expire;
Nor spares the hand

That from the land

Uproots the ancient evil.

The hand-breadth cloud the sages feared,
Its bloody rain is dropping;
The poison plant the fathers spared

All else is overtopping.

East, West, South, North,

It curses the earth:

All justice dies,

And fraud and lies

Live only in its shadow.