A little child strewed roses on his bier-- Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul, Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere, That blossomed with good actions--brief, but whole; The aged matron and the faithful slave Approached with reverent feet the hero’s lowly grave. No man of God might say the burial rite Above the “rebel”--thus declared the foe That blanched before him in the deadly fight; But woman’s voice, with accents soft and low, Trembling with pity--touched with pathos--read Over his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead. “’Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power!” Softly the promise floated on the air, While the low breathings of the sunset hour Came back responsive to the mourner’s prayer. Gently they laid him underneath the sod, And left him with his fame, his country, and his God! Let us not weep for him, whose deeds endure! So young, so brave, so beautiful! He died As he had wished to die; the past is sure; Whatever yet of sorrow may betide Those who still linger by the stormy shore, Change cannot harm him now, nor fortune touch him more. [Southern.] [Illustration] [Illustration] TARDY GEORGE. [This poem was written at a time when the impatience of the Northern people with the delay of McClellan to make use of the means so lavishly provided for him, was scarcely to be restrained. For many months McClellan had been in command of a vast army, perfectly equipped and thoroughly disciplined, yet month after month went by with nothing done and nothing attempted. The discontent of the people found much angrier expression than was given to it in these stanzas, but this is one of the best metrical protests that appeared.--EDITOR.] What are you waiting for, George, I pray? To scour your cross-belts with fresh pipe-clay? To burnish your buttons, to brighten your guns; Or wait you for May-day and warm-spring suns? Are you blowing your fingers because they are cold, Or catching your breath ere you take a hold? Is the mud knee-deep in valley and gorge? What are you waiting for, tardy George? Want you a thousand more cannon made, To add to the thousand now arrayed? Want you more men, more money to pay? Are not two millions enough per day? Wait you for gold and credit to go, Before we shall see your martial show; Till Treasury Notes will not pay to forge? What are you waiting for, tardy George? Are you waiting for your hair to turn, Your heart to soften, your bowels to yearn A little more toward “our Southern friends,” As at home and abroad they work their ends? “Our Southern friends!” whom you hold so dear That you do no harm and give no fear, As you tenderly take them by the gorge-- What are you waiting for, tardy George?