No base Night-riders he bequeathed, When peace her joyful olives wreathed. Nor placed a mean banditti stamp Upon the soldiers of his camp. When truce was called by Grant and Lee ’Neath Appomattox apple tree, And ’mid the late conflicting bands Rejoicing Blue and Gray shook hands, And maidens by no fear oppressed Clasped warrior lovers to their breast, When Richmond’s hills echoed no more, The black-lipped cannon’s horrid roar, A scene was witnessed there sublime, A wonder in the halls of Time, Each soldier to his work returned, In whom the love of country burned Some to their former plow and spade, Some to their shops or honest trade; Trained by the clinic of the camp Doctors relit the student’s lamp. Some to the courts, or in the States’ Grand forum joined the high debates, Others who learned in the late strife The vanity of mortal life, Proclaimed the Gospel’s “Old, old Story” Their mothers taught long passed to glory, Leading their audience to Christ Whose balm for every ill sufficed. Watering their flocks at Jordan’s springs, Whose doves bore healing in their wings Some of the band of Morgan’s fighters, Swapped swords for pens of ready writers, And Captains spruce and bearded Colonels Ruled Times, Gazettes, and Courier-Journals Some tossed the blazing torch aside, And ruled the tracks they once destroyed, Building steel railways far and near; And Duke who rode with Morgan’s men, Turns suitor now to “Ellen N.” Each man who followed Morgan’s fame Inspired by his heroic name, His living monument became. In Gotham’s mighty mart of trade, Which all of worth and brain invites The men of Morgan’s cavalcade Conspicuous walk as shining lights As walked the men of Washington When Revolution’s war was done. In posts of honor now they labor As when equipped with gun and sabre, And men exclaim on every hand “These rode in Morgan’s great Command. Nor lapse of years shall e’er dispel The love with which they fondly dwell On comrades who in battle fell, Who braved Stone River’s fiery scath, Or forward pressed on bloody path Of Shiloh’s field or Nashville’s wrath. THE WHIPPOORWILL. Evening mists hang o’er the rill, Twilight’s lucent dews are falling; From the copse on yonder hill The lone whippoorwill is calling; Soon as glow the Orient fires Of the new moon’s shining crescent With a throat that never tires Cries the bird with song incessant, “Whippoorwill!” Piping from its tuneful bill, “Whippoorwill!”