Winter may howl with its rage and storm, But we know they are housed and safe and warm, 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 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; 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. Nor from thy lips come forth a sound of woe, THE STARVED PRISONERS OF THE REBELS. Not on the battle-field Did they their brave lives yield, In gallant onslaught 'gainst a treacherous foe; 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; 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: Stretched widely o'er the land, And Pity prayed, those dear ones might be fed! Oh! more than fiends were they, 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: When the victorious cry Might prove a solace to unheeded woe ; Theirs was the Martyr's fate, For Death's still march, so fearful and so slow ! Known or unknown their graves, And men as Heroes such tried souls shall know! NOT GIVEN BUT LENT. Not given but lent! how slow we are to learn That earth is not a sure, abiding place, Only a school to fit for Heaven. The Heaven that we ourselves within may bear, The joy that we with kindred souls may share, The beauty of the earth, the sun's warm smile, These are but lent us for a little while, The gold we grasp, the houses that we build, The warranty that claims to make them ours, 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, The lesson on our stricken hearts must fall, "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, |