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Winter may howl with its rage and storm,
And the icy river be frozen fast;

But we know they are housed and safe and warm,
Secure from the cold and biting blast.

And so beyond the River of Death

Dwell all the friends who have passed before; We can think of their homes and higher joys, Though the waves look dark from our earthly shore !

Though faint, how faint, are the golden lines
Seen through the mist of our falling tears,
We know that a glorious light there shines
And sends its glow through the endless years.

The storms and sorrows of earth may beat

And friends be sundered, and love be riven,— But we know beyond the River they meet— That the homes of earth are gathered in heaven!

And so beyond the River of Death,

Whose waves look bright on the other side, They await us! they who have passed the flood, Who found new life—when we said they died.

THE HARSH WORD.

Oh, say it not!

Let it remain unspoken,

Deep in thy heart's cell where it had its birth;
Chain it with bonds that never shall be broken;
Nor on the earth

Let it e'er send a feeling

Of unkindness around one cheerful hearth,

To cause a wound for which may be no healing; For bright eyed Mirth

From Distrust will flee away;

Kind thoughts and kindly feelings will be dearth.
Oh! then unuttered let it ever stay,

Nor from thy lips come forth a sound of woe,
To spread unhappiness where'er it go!

THE STARVED PRISONERS OF THE REBELS.

Not on the battle-field

Did they their brave lives yield,

In gallant onslaught 'gainst a treacherous foe;
But slowly, day by day,

Their warm blood oozed away,

In lingering agonies but God may know !

Not with the cannon's roar,

Booming o'er land and shore,

And stirring notes that filled with martial pride;
Only Death's muffled drum

Bade the lone pris'ner come

The heart's faint beatings in his aching side.

Upon their famished sight

The social board at night,

And loved ones' faces, must how oft have risen: Kind Angels pitying gleams

Shed through their feverish dreams,

With home's sweet visions, in their grave-bound

prison.

In many a vacant home

Eyes watched to see them come,

And weary hearts with hopeless longing bled:
While Charity's full hand

Stretched widely o'er the land,

And Pity prayed, those dear ones might be fed!

Oh! more than fiends were they,
To turn free gifts away,

To see exhausted Nature sink and die!

But from each prison wall

Went forth the starved one's call,

Till the whole world beheld their misery!

Not on the battle field

Did they their brave lives yield

In gallant struggling 'gainst a cruel foe:
Not theirs to do and die,

When the victorious cry

Might prove a solace to unheeded woe ;

Theirs was the Martyr's fate,
Unshrinkingly to wait.

For Death's still march, so fearful and so slow !

Known or unknown their graves,
The laurel round them waves,

And men as Heroes such tried souls shall know!

NOT GIVEN BUT LENT.

Not given but lent! how slow we are to learn
The lesson ever given,

That earth is not a sure, abiding place,

Only a school to fit for Heaven.

The Heaven that we ourselves within may bear,
To form above, below,

The joy that we with kindred souls may share,
Wherever we may go.

The beauty of the earth, the sun's warm smile,
The glowing heavens, the sea,

These are but lent us for a little while,
Not for eternity.

The gold we grasp, the houses that we build,
The spreading lands we prize,

The warranty that claims to make them ours,
Ever stern Death denies.

The friends we love, and weave around them ties, Their hearts with ours entwined,

Pass forth with morning's breath, with evening's dew. Yet we are fools and blind,

And live as if this world were all in all,
Till swiftly sent,

The lesson on our stricken hearts must fall,
Not given but lent.

"WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER."

When this cruel War is over,

When the cannon booms no more, And the thick white blossoming clover Reddens not with human gore,— When the hot summer's scorching breath Adds not new agony to death,—

When this cruel War is over,

Who shall count the thousands slain That the green sods lightly cover

In the valley and the plain?

Or trace among earth's billowy waves

Where loved ones sleep in nameless graves?

For the precious blood outpouring,
For the many hopes laid low,-
Hopes for loved ones fondly soaring,
Quenched in agony and woe,
Whose morning beams so rosy, bright,
Were lost in an untimely night;—

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