under foot, or sent into the Cam, and no one would have stopped to render them assistance. The coxswain of the Caius boat looked the very personification of excitement; he bent over at every pull till his nose almost touched the stroke's arm, cheering his men meantime at the top of his voice. The shouts rose louder and louder. "Pull, Trinity!" "Pull, Keys!" "Go it, Trinity!" "Keep on, Keys!" "Pull, stroke!” "Now, No. 3!" "Lay out, Greenwell!"-for the friends of the different rowers began to appeal to them individually. "That's it, Trinity!” "Where are you, Keys?" "Hurrah, Trinity! inity!! inity!!!" and the outcries of the Trinitarians waxed more and more boisterous and triumphant, as our men, with their long slashing strokes, urged their boat closer and closer upon the enemy.

Not more than half a foot now intervened between the bow of the pursuer and the stern of the pursued; still the Caius crew pulled with all their might. They were determined to die game at least, or perhaps they still entertained some hope of making their escape. Boats have occasionally run a mile almost touching. But there is no more chance for them. One tremendous pull from the First Trinity, and half that distance has disappeared. They all but touch. Another such stroke, and you are aboard of them. Hurrah! a bump! a bump!

Not so! The Caius steersman is on the lookout, and with a skilful inclination of the rudder he has made his boat fall off-just the least bit in the world-but enough to prevent their contact. The First Trinity overlapped, but did not touch.

Exulting shouts from the shore hailed the success of the dexterous evasion. Enraged at being thus baffled, the pursuers threw all their strength into a couple of strokes. The Caius men, knowing that this was their last chance, were doing their best to get away, but the other boat was upon them in a moment. Again the skill of the coxswain was brought into play, and again the pursuing boat overlapped without touching. But it was now clear that they were only delaying their fate, not averting it, for the Trinity men, going four feet for their three, were running them into the further bank in a way that left no room for change of course. "Hurrah for Trinity!" shouted I, in the fulness of my exultation, and at that moment a horse walked against me and nearly threw me off the bank.

Both boats had hauled off Trinity was the head of the

When I regained my feet, it was all over. on one side, and ours had hoisted her flag. river once more, and great was the joy of her inmates.

Alas for human expectations! When the season ended, Caius was first and the First Trinity-No. 4.

Augustus Rodney Macdonough.

BORN in Middletown, Conn., 1820.

A MAGDALEN OF THE DRESDEN GALLERY.

1.

GERHARD DOW-LYS-CORREGGIO.

NOT

OT she, whose fruitless tears avow a youth
Less yielded to warm love than basely sold;
Angry with shame, who clutches still her gold,
Drooped in satiety, not bowed with ruth-
Nor she who mars with penances uncouth
Her fatal beauty, which no eyes behold
Save a skull's hollow orbs, yet overbold

Deems heaven's grace a debt to grief, forsooth-
Nor that dust-kissing face, whence sorrow's tooth
Has gnawed all passion, leaving it as cold

As her own emptied vase: whose hands enfold

The Book from which remorse has taught her truth-
Though still so fair in ruin she might win

The world to doubt if sentence waits on sin.

2.

ZURBARAN-GUIDO.

ALONE, not lingering to adore or mourn,

First seen, first sent, from that transfigured grave,

With "go in peace"-to seek no desert cave,
But loving, erring lives to lift and warn.

With prophet-tears for sisters yet unborn,

She, first forgiven, only blessed, shall crave

Their heritage in all her dear Lord gave,

Grace for crushed hearts, killed by the harsh world's scorn

Or, rapt in vision, lifting eyes above

Softened through sorrow to ecstatic love,

Shall hail the promise of the golden years

1874.

When balm shall be distilled from bitterest tears,

God's law rule man's, and all who, following her,
Love, to be lost, not unredeemed shall err.

Theodore D'Hara.

BORN in Danville, Ky., 1820. DIED near Guerryton, Ala., 1867.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.

[Originally Written, August, 1847, in Memory of the Kentuckians who fell at Buena

Vista.]

THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat

The soldier's last tattoo;

No more on Life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.

On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,

And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance

Now swells upon the wind;

No troubled thought at midnight haunts

Of loved ones left behind;

No vision of the morrow's strife

The warrior's dream alarms;

No braying horn nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed;
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.

And plenteous funeral tears have washed

The red stains from each brow,

And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,

The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past;

Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight

Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane

That sweeps his great plateau,

Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,

Came down the serried foe.

Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was "Victory or death."

Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O'er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged.
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the gory tide;

Not long, our stout old chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.

'Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr's grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nation's flag to save.

By rivers of their fathers' gore

His first-born laurels grew,

And well he deemed the sons would pour

Their lives for glory too.

Full many a norther's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain-

And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its mouldered slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,

Alone awakes each sullen height

That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground,

Ye must not slumber there,

Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air.

Your own proud land's heroic soil

Shall be your fitter grave;

She claims from war his richest spoil

The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,

Far from the gory field,

Borne to a Spartan mother's breast

On many a bloody shield;

The sunshine of their native sky

Smiles sadly on them here,

And kindred eyes and hearts watch by

The heroes' sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!

Dear as the blood ye gave;

No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot

While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone

In deathless song shall tell,

When many a vanished age hath flown,
The story how ye fell;

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,

Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.

William Tecumseh Sherman.

BORN in Lancaster, O., 1820. DIED in New York, N. Y., 1891.

BEGINNING THE MARCH TO THE SEA.

[Memoirs. Second and Revised Edition. 1886.]

ABOUT 7 A. M. of November 16th we rode out of Atlanta by the

Decatur road, filled by the marching troops and wagons of the Fourteenth Corps; and reaching the hill, just outside of the old rebel works, we naturally paused to look back upon the scenes of our past battles. We stood upon the very ground whereon was fought the bloody battle of July 22d, and could see the copse of wood where McPherson fell. Behind us lay Atlanta, smouldering and in ruins, the black smoke rising high in air, and hanging like a pall over the ruined city. Away off in the distance, on the McDonough road, was the rear of Howard's column, the gun-barrels glistening in the sun, the white-topped wagons stretching away to the south; and right before us the Fourteenth Corps, marching steadily and rapidly, with a cheery look and swinging pace, that made light of the thousand miles that lay between us and Richmond. Some band, by accident, struck up the anthem of "John Brown's soul goes marching on"; the men caught up the strain, and never before or since have I heard the chorus of "Glory, glory, hallelujah!" done with more spirit, or in better harmony of time and place.

Then we turned our horses' heads to the east; Atlanta was soon lost behind the screen of trees, and became a thing of the past. Around it clings many a thought of desperate battle, of hope and fear, that now