“THIS DEAR CHILD-HEARTED WOMAN THAT IS DEAD” I This woman, with the dear child-heart, Ye mourn as dead, is—where and what? With faith as artless as her Art, I question not,— But dare divine, and feel, and know Her blessedness—as hath been writ In allegory.—Even so I fashion it:— II A stately figure, rapt and awed In her new guise of Angelhood, Still lingered, wistful—knowing God Was very good.— Her thought’s fine whisper filled the pause; And, listening, the Master smiled, And lo! the stately angel was —A little child. TO A POET-CRITIC Yes,—the bee sings—I confess it— Sweet as honey—Heaven bless it!— Yit he’d be a _sweeter_ singer Ef he didn’t have no stinger. AN OLD-TIMER Here where the wayward stream Is restful as a dream, And where the banks o’erlook A pool from out whose deeps My pleased face upward peeps, I cast my hook. Silence and sunshine blent!— A Sabbath-like content Of wood and wave;—a free- Hand landscape grandly wrought Of Summer’s brightest thought And mastery.— For here form, light and shade, And color—all are laid With skill so rarely fine, The eye may even see The ripple tremblingly Lip at the line. I mark the dragon-fly Flit waveringly by In ever-veering flight, Till, in a hush profound, I see him eddy round The “cork,” and—’light! Ho! with the boy’s faith then Brimming my heart again, And knowing, soon or late, The “nibble” yet shall roll Its thrills along the pole, I—breathless—wait. THE SILENT VICTORS MAY 30, 1878 _“Dying for victory, cheer on cheer_ _Thundered on his eager ear.”_ CHARLES L. HOLSTEIN. I Deep, tender, firm and true, the Nation’s heart Throbs for her gallant heroes passed away, Who in grim Battle’s drama played their part, And slumber here to-day.— Warm hearts that beat their lives out at the shrine Of Freedom, while our country held its breath As brave battalions wheeled themselves in line And marched upon their death: When Freedom’s Flag, its natal wounds scarce healed, Was torn from peaceful winds and flung again To shudder in the storm of battle-field— The elements of men,— When every star that glittered was a mark For Treason’s ball, and every rippling bar Of red and white was sullied with the dark And purple stain of war: When angry guns, like famished beasts of prey, Were howling o’er their gory feast of lives, And sending dismal echoes far away To mothers, maids, and wives:— The mother, kneeling in the empty night, With pleading hands uplifted for the son Who, even as she prayed, had fought the fight— The victory had won: