In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won;

Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the blossoms, the Blue;
Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger for ever,

When they laurel the graves of our dead.
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Love and tears for the Blue,
Tears and Love for the Gray.

FRANCIS MILES FINOH.

The Death of King Bomba.

COULD I pass those lounging sentries,
Through the aloe-bordered entries,
Up the sweep of squalid stair,
On through chamber after chamber,
Where the sunshine's gold and amber

Turn decay to beauty rare,—
I should reach a guarded portal,
Where, for strife of issue mortal,

Face to face two kings are met:
One the grisly King of Terrors;
One a Bourbon, with his errors,

Late to conscience-clearing set.

Well his fevered pulse may flutter,
And the priests their mass may mutter
With such fervor as they may;
Cross and chrism and genuflection,
Mop and mow and interjection,

Will not frighten Death away.

By the dying despot sitting,
At the hard heart's portals hitting,
Shocking the dull brain to work,
Death makes clear what life has hidden,
Chides what life has left unchidden,
Quickens truth life tried to burke.

He but ruled within his borders
After Holy Church's orders,

Did what Austria bade him do,—
By their guidance flogged and tortured
High-born men, and gently nurtured

Chained with crime's felonious crew.
What if summer fevers gripped them,
What if winter freezings nipped them,
Till they rotted in their chains?
He had word of Pope and Kaiser—
None could holier be or wiser;

Theirs the counsel, his the reins.

So he pleads excuses eager,
Clutching with his fingers meagre

At the bed-clothes as he speaks;
But King Death sits grimly grinning
At the Bourbon's cobweb-spinning,
As each cobweb-cable breaks.
And the poor soul from life's islet,
Rudderless, without a pilot,

Drifteth slowly down the dark;
While 'mid rolling incense vapor,
Chanted dirge, and flaring taper,
Lies the body, stiff and stark.

The Golden Wedding.

ANONYMOUS.

O LOVE, whose patient pilgrim feet
Life's longest path have trod,

Whose ministry hath symboled sweet
The dearer love of God,—

The sacred myrtle wreathes again
Thine altar, as of old;

And what was green with summer then,
Is mellowed now to gold.

Not now, as then, the Future's face
Is flushed with fancy's light;
But Memory, with a milder grace,
Shall rule the feast to-night.
Blest was the sun of joy that shone,

Nor less the blinding shower

The bud of fifty years agone

Is Love's perfected flower.

O Memory, ope thy mystic door!

O dream of youth, return!

And let the lights that gleamed of yore
Beside this altar burn!

The past is plain; 't was Love designed
E'en Sorrow's iron chain,

And Mercy's shining thread has twined
With the dark warp of Pain.

So be it still. O thou who hast
That younger bridal blest,

Till the May-morn of love has passed
To evening's golden west,
Come to this later Cana, Lord,

And, at thy touch divine,

The water of that earlier board

To-night shall turn to wine.

Tacking Ship off Shore.

THE weather leech of the topsail shivers,

DAVID GRAY.

The bowlines strain, and the lee shrouds slacken,

The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers,

And the waves with the coming squall-cloud blacken.

Open one point on the weather bow,

Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head. There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow,

And the pilot watches the heaving lead.

I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze,
Till the muttered order of "Full and by!"
Is suddenly changed for "Full for stays!"

The ship bends lower before the breeze,

As her broadside fair to the blast she lays;
And she swifter springs to the rising seas,
As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!"

It is silence all, as each in his place,

With the gathered coil in his hardened hands, By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace,

Waiting the watchword, impatient stands.

And the light on Fire Island Head draws near,
As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout
From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear,
With the welcome call of "Ready! About!"

No time to spare! It is touch and go;

And the captain growls, "Down helm! hard down!" As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw,

While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's frown.

High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray,

As we meet the shock of the plunging sea;
And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay,
As I answer, "Ay, ay, Sir! Ha-a-rd a-lee!"

With the swerving leap of a startled steed,

The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind;

The dangerous shoals on the lee recede,

And the headland white we have left behind.

The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse,

And belly and tug at the groaning cleats;

The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps;

And thunders the order, "Tacks and sheets!"

Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew,
Hisses the rain of the rushing squall;

The sails are aback from clew to clew,

And now is the moment for "Mainsail haul!"

And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy,
By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung;

She holds her way, and I look with joy

For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung.

"Let go, and haul! 'T is the last command,

And the head-sails fill to the blast once more; Astern and to leeward lies the land,

With its breakers white on a shingly shore.

What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall?
I steady the helm for the open sea;

The first mate clamors, "Belay there, all!"

And the captain's breath once more comes free.

And so off shore let the good ship fly;

In

Little care I how the gusts may blow,

my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry,

Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below.

WALTER MITCHELL

The Mistress of the House.

THE guests are come, all silent they have waited;
Entering the noiseless hush with silent bows,

They linger for her coming, sore belated-
Where is the little mistress of the house?