DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER.

[In Memory of General Philip Kearney.]
CLOSE his eyes, his work is done!
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon, or set of sun,

Hand of man, or kiss of woman?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight,
Proved his truth by his endeavor;
Let him sleep in solemn night,
Sleep forever and forever.

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars,

Roll the drum and fire the volley!

What to him are all our wars,

What but death bemocking folly?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!

Leave him to God's watching eye,

Trust him to the hand that made him.

Mortal love weeps idly by:

God alone has power to aid him.

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:

Lay him low!

GEORGE H. BOKER.

MALVERN HILL.

[July 1, 1862.]

WAS there ever message sweeter
Than that one from Malvern Hill,
From a grim old fellow-you remember?
Dying in the dark at Malvern Hill.
With his rough face turned a little,
On a heap of scarlet sand,

They found him, just within the thicket,
With a picture in his hand,—

With a stained and crumpled picture

Of a woman's aged face;

Yet there seemed to leap a wild entreaty,
Young and living--tender-from the face
When they flashed the lantern on it,
Gilding all the purple shade,

And stooped to raise him softly,—
"That's my mother, sir," he said.

"Tell her "--but he wandered, slipping
Into tangled words and cries--
Something about Mac and Hooker,
Something dropping through the cries

About the kitten by the fire,

And mother's cranberry-pies; and there The words fell, and an utter

Silence brooded in the air.

Just as he was drifting from them,

Out into the dark, alone,

"Tell her

(Poor old mother, waiting for your message,
Waiting with the kitten, all alone!)
Through the hush his voice broke:
Thank you, Doctor-when you can,
Tell her that I kissed her picture,

And wished I'd been a better man."

Ah, I wonder if the red feet
Of departed battle-hours

May not leave for us their searching
Message from those distant hours.
Sisters, daughters, mothers, think you,
Would your heroes, now or then,
Dying, kiss your pictured faces,
Wishing they'd been better men?

ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS.

THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE. [In answer to President Lincoln's call, issued July 2, 1862, for 300,000 additional men, to serve three years.] WE are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more,

From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore;

We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear,

With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent

tear;

We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern sky,

Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry;

And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside,

And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride,

And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour:

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

If you look all up our valleys where the growing harvests shine,

You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line;

And children from their mother's knees are pulling at the weeds,

And learning how to reap and sow against their country's needs;

And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door :

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

You have called us, and we're coming, by Richmond's bloody tide

To lay us down, for Freedom's sake, our brothers' bones beside,

Or from foul treason's savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade,

And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade.

Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before:

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

OUR PRIVILEGE.

ANONYMOUS.

[Owing to the remoteness of California from the scenes of the war, and the difficulty of transporting troops, that State sent but eleven regiments to the field; although it is probable that many Californians joined organizations from other States and Territories, or enlisted in the regular army.]

NOT ours, where battle-smoke upcurls,

And battle-dews lie wet,

To meet the charge that treason hurls
By sword and bayonet ;

Not ours to guide the fatal scythe
The fleshless Reaper wields;
The harvest-moon looks calmly down
Upon our peaceful fields.

The long grass dimples on the hill,
The pines sing by the sea,
And Plenty, from her golden horn,
Is pouring far and free.

O brothers by the farther sea!

Think still our faith is warm;
The same bright flag above us waves
That swathed our baby form.

The same red blood that dyes your fields
Here throbs in patriot pride;

The blood that flowed where Lander fell,
And Baker's crimson tide.

And thus apart our hearts keep time
With every pulse ye feel;

And Mercy's ringing gold shall chime
With Valor's clashing steel.

BRET HARTE.

THE VOLUNTEER.

"AT dawn," he said, “I bid them all farewell,
To go where bugles call and rifles gleam."
And with the restless thought, asleep he fell
And glided into dream.

A great hot plain from sea to mountain spread-
Through it a level river slowly drawn ;
He moved with a vast crowd, and at its head
Streamed banners like the dawn.