Thinking of _him_, late the babe of her bosom, Fair faced and blue eyed, love's tenderest blossom, Dashing along 'mid the carnage around him, Fearless as Mars 'mid the balls that surround him, Changed, as by magic, from home's tender brother, Lovingest son, both to father and mother-- Changed to a man, to a stern, noble soldier-- None in the field that is braver or bolder! Writing: 'I'm proud of the name, dearest mother! Craven is he who would hold any other While our loved standard of freedom 's in danger, May he forever be held as a stranger!' Such are the words in his last noble letter! What fifteen years that could write any better? Now I am waiting to know if he 's wounded-- Waiting--to know how my fears must be bounded: Closed his eyes _may_ be to sorrow or danger-- Dead he _may_ be in the land of the stranger! God of the desolate--Rachel's Consoler! Light of the universe--Nature's Controller! Pity me, pity me! Send consolation! Let not my heart feel this deep desolation! He is _so_ young, and he loves me so truly-- Scourge me not, Father! so deep--so unduly! Leave him! to lighten my life-load of sorrow! Leave him to brighten the clouds of my morrow! Leave him to love me when other loves fail me, Leave him to strengthen when rude storms assail me! Leave him--so kind, both as son and as brother; Leave him, a future of hope to his mother! God of all battles! speed, speed this decision! Let us not look, as afar, at a vision! Send to our soldiers the true men to lead them: _They_ have the courage--do Thou guide and speed them! Then shall our sisters, our wives, and our mothers Feel that our husbands, our sons, and our brothers, Though they may fall, are not led to the altar Heedless and reckless, like beasts by the halter! Then we may feel, though their dear blood is staining Freedom's fair banner, a COUNTRY we're gaining! Then we may look, though with eyes dim and burning, Some day or other, their blessed returning! Or we may see, though with eyes dim with weeping, Freedom's bird hover in love o'er their sleeping: Feeling, though sorrow may make our heads hoary, They are not victims of weakness, but glory! EARLY HISTORY OF THE PRINTING AND NEWSPAPER PRESS IN BOSTON AND NEW YORK.