I thought the deacon liked me, yit I warn't adzackly shore of it-- Fer, mind ye, time and time agin, When jiners 'ud be comin' in, I'd seed him shakin' hands as free With all the sistern as with me! But jurin' last Revival, where He called on _me_ to lead in prayer, An' kneeled there with me, side by side, A-whisper'n' "he felt sanctified Jes' tetchin of my gyarment's hem,"-- That settled things as fur as them- Thare other wimmin was concerned!-- And--well!--I know I must a-turned A dozen colors!--_Flurried_?--_la_!-- No mortal sinner never saw A gladder widder than the one A-kneelin' there and wonderun' Who'd pray'--So glad, upon my word, I railly could n't thank the Lord! THE CURSE OF THE WANDERING FOOT. All hope of rest withdrawn me?-- What dread command hath put This awful curse upon me-- The curse of the wandering foot! Forward and backward and thither, And hither and yon again-- Wandering ever! And whither? Answer them, God! Amen. The blue skies are far o'er me--- The bleak fields near below: Where the mother that bore me?-- Where her grave in the snow?-- Glad in her trough of a coffin-- The sad eyes frozen shut That wept so often, often, The curse of the wandering foot! Here in your marts I care not Whatsoever ye think. Good folk many who dare not Give me to eat and drink: Give me to sup of your pity-- Feast me on prayers!--O ye, Met I your Christ in the city He would fare forth with me-- Forward and onward and thither, And hither again and yon, With milk for our drink together And honey to feed upon-- Nor hope of rest withdrawn us, Since the one Father put The blessed curse upon us-- The curse of the wandering foot. A MONUMENT FOR THE SOLDIERS. A monument for the Soldiers! And what will ye build it of? Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze, Outlasting the Soldiers' love? Can ye glorify it with legends As grand as their blood hath writ From the inmost shrine of this land of thine To the outermost verge of it? And the answer came: We would build it Out of our hopes made sure, And out of our purest prayers and tears, And out of our faith secure: We would build it out of the great white truths Their death hath sanctified, And the sculptured forms of the men in arms, And their faces ere they died. And what heroic figures Can the sculptor carve in stone? Can the marble breast be made to bleed, And the marble lips to moan? Can the marble brow be fevered? And the marble eyes be graved To look their last, as the flag floats past, On the country they have saved?