I hear, as I stand, pressed with grief, by your graves, A murmur, soft, strong, as of waves upon waves; And memory’s harp, with its mystical strings, Recalls, with the sweeping of infinite wings, How precious that flag by our fathers unfurled-- White flower of charity, light of the world, Float ever, proud banner of freedom sublime, Till the judgment’s last trump sounds the ending of time. The Christmas Eve bells were all ringing aloud, When I dreamed that I saw on God’s bow in the cloud-- Its red like the rose dawn of Easter’s bright day; Its blue like the love that abideth for aye; Its gold the reflection of Paradise street; Its white the effulgence of God’s mercy seat-- An Angel, calm, radiant, of presence august, The great, golden balance of mercy adjust; And millions of martyrs on battlefields slain, Like the voice of the ocean, repeated the strain: “O, States of the Union, all warfare shall cease; Christ lifts o’er the nation the banner of peace, As the prism-banded bow of the sky stanched the flood Its earth-child, the flag, ends the deluge of blood. War’s death-dealing cloud has forever rolled by, And Peace, with her olive branch, smiles from the sky Forever is silenced dissension’s wild roar; The demon of hate rends the Union no more.” And, lo! the bells answered from valley and hill: “Peace, peace upon earth, to all men of good-will!” THE HUNTER’S LAST RIDE. [We rode for hours, the day following, in the track of the fire which had swept the vast prairies as far as the eye could reach with utter desolation, finding on several occasions the charred remains of animals which had perished in the flames, and in one instance those of an unfortunate hunter and his horse.--Brissot’s Western Travels, Vol. II.] One autumn eve, when clouds unfurled Swept down the west in bannered splendor, And dying sunset bathed the world In dolphin rainbows, mild and tender, As if the sun in heaven afar Lingered to greet the Evening Star, Mingling his glance of clearer light With the first radiance of the night, And in the twilight, tarrying late, Unwilling passed the western gate; A hunter, wearied with the chase, With his spent steed was slowly turning Unto his far-off resting place, Where his lone campfire light was burning-- For many a mile his steed had gone O’er the wide prairie since the dawn.