MAJOR DADE’S COMMAND. A requiem for the gallant dead? A dirge for those who died, With banner streaming overhead, Unsoiled, unterrified! A gallant but devoted band, They fell, unyielding, sword in hand. They hear not now the Indian yell, Nor cannon’s angry roar; The clash of arms, or ’larum bell, Shall startle them no more! Unlike and severed were their homes— One sepulchre contains their bones. The spangled banner that has led So oft to victory, Its stars undimmed, above their bed, Unfolded to the sky, When in the unconquered hearts below, The tide of life had ceased to flow. No sculptured imagery on high, Reveals their lonely grave. No epitaph can passer spy, To tell where rest the brave! Such may become the gilded tomb, But not the stern old forest’s gloom. Like streamers, to the passing breeze, The unshorn grass waves here; As silent mourners, blighted trees, Or monuments appear; The glad, wild birds their requiem sing, And flowers around their incense fling. The smile that struggles in the eye, When withered is the heart, Reminding us of hopes gone by, No joy, but gloom impart; So nature loses all its bloom, And beauty round the loved one’s tomb. Though wild and distant is the spot, Where their bleached bones are laid, More hallowed ground is honored not By widow, sire, or maid: And fame shall shield from vulgar tread, The ashes of the valiant dead. And though around their lowly tomb, No kin or friends are found, Who weep the blight of manhood’s bloom On valor’s sacred ground; Yet loving hearts are chill with woe, And eyes are dim with sorrow’s flow. As to some venerated shrine, Whose lights have ceased to hum, Shall pilgrims here, in after time, Their wand’ring footsteps turn, And view in Fancy’s magic glass, The scene of death before them pass. Perchance, upon the spot they fell, Some monument may then Its lofty column rear to tell The gratitude of men; The noble dead! they need it not; Their valor consecrates the spot. Conrad. * * * * * THE WIDOW. There sits a mourner, solitary now With downcast eyes, and pale dejected brow. Cold is the pillow where she laid her head, When last they sat beneath their favorite shade— Hushed is the voice, which ever to her own Answered in tones of tenderness alone. Stilled are the merry notes of childish glee, And she is left—of all that family! She looks abroad—and sees no welcome smile, No cheerful sounds her weary hours beguile, She looks within—and all is mute despair, She looks to Heaven—oh! joy! her all is there.