"No sight? no sound?" "No; nothing save The plover from the marshes calling, And in yon western sky, about An hour ago, a star was falling." "A star? There's nothing strange in that." "No, nothing; but, above the thicket, Somehow it seemed to me that God Somewhere had just relieved a picket." THE GODDESS CONTRIBUTED TO THE FAIR FOR THE LADIES' PATRIOTIC FUND OF THE PACIFIC "Who comes?" The sentry's warning cry Rings sharply on the evening air: Who comes? The challenge: no reply, Yet something motions there. A woman, by those graceful folds; A soldier, by that martial tread: "Advance three paces. Halt! until Thy name and rank be said." "My name? Her name, in ancient song, Who fearless from Olympus came: Look on me! Mortals know me best In battle and in flame." "Enough! I know that clarion voice; I know that gleaming eye and helm, Those crimson lips,--and in their dew The best blood of the realm. "The young, the brave, the good and wise, Have fallen in thy curst embrace: The juices of the grapes of wrath Still stain thy guilty face. "My brother lies in yonder field, Face downward to the quiet grass: Go back! he cannot see thee now; But here thou shalt not pass." A crack upon the evening air, A wakened echo from the hill: The watchdog on the distant shore Gives mouth, and all is still. The sentry with his brother lies Face downward on the quiet grass; And by him, in the pale moonshine, A shadow seems to pass. No lance or warlike shield it bears: A helmet in its pitying hands Brings water from the nearest brook, To meet his last demands. Can this be she of haughty mien, The goddess of the sword and shield? Ah, yes! The Grecian poet's myth Sways still each battlefield. For not alone that rugged War Some grace or charm from Beauty gains; But, when the goddess' work is done, The woman's still remains. ON A PEN OF THOMAS STARR KING This is the reed the dead musician dropped, With tuneful magic in its sheath still hidden; The prompt allegro of its music stopped, Its melodies unbidden. But who shall finish the unfinished strain, Or wake the instrument to awe and wonder, And bid the slender barrel breathe again, An organ-pipe of thunder! His pen! what humbler memories cling about Its golden curves! what shapes and laughing graces Slipped from its point, when his full heart went out In smiles and courtly phrases? The truth, half jesting, half in earnest flung; The word of cheer, with recognition in it; The note of alms, whose golden speech outrung The golden gift within it.