But still I can not kiss the hand that smote my country sore, Nor love the foes who trampled down the colors that she bore; Between my heart and yours there rolls a deep and crimson tide-- My brother's and my lover's blood forbid me be your bride. The girls who loved the boys in gray--the girls to country true-- May ne'er in wedlock give their hands to those who wore the blue. TELL THE BOYS THE WAR IS ENDED. BY EMILY J. MOORE. While in the first ward of the Quintard Hospital, Rome, Georgia, a young soldier, from the Eighth Arkansas Regiment, who had been wounded at Murfreesboro', called me to his bedside. As I approached I saw that he was dying, and when I bent over him he was just able to whisper, "Tell the boys the war is ended." "Tell the boys the war is ended," These were all the words he said; "Tell the boys the war is ended," In an instant more was dead. Strangely bright, serene, and cheerful Was the smile upon his face, While the pain, of late so fearful, Had not left the slightest trace. "Tell the boys the war is ended," And with heavenly visions bright Thoughts of comrades loved were blended, As his spirit took its flight. "Tell the boys the war is ended," "Grant, O God, it may be so," Was the prayer which then ascended, In a whisper deep, though low. "Tell the boys the war is ended," And his warfare then was o'er, As by angel bands attended, He departed from earth's shore. Bursting shells and cannons roaring Could not rouse him by their din; He to better worlds was soaring, Far from war, and pain, and sin. BURN THE COTTON. BY ESTELLE. Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Let the solemn triumph rise; Fanned by Freedom's breath, its white wing Spreads her banner to the skies. "Melt the bells" is but re-echoed O'er our valley's gathered pride, Lay the cotton on the altar Where our loved have nobly died. Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Does this sacrifice compare With the battle-field red flowing With the brave hearts offered there? They no more shall strike for Freedom, Never worship at her shrine-- To hurl back the fell invader, To avenge them--it is thine. Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Down the Mississippi's tide Let it thunder, till its valleys Catch the echo, far and wide-- Frowning in its wrath, it rises, Spreads its dark wing o'er the land, Vetoes, in its swelling fury, Gain, to lure the robber band. Burn the cotton! burn the cotton! Pile the white fleece high and higher, Till the heavens reflect the glory Kindled by the patriot's fire. This shall teach the haughty foeman, Startle him too late, to find Chains were never made for freemen, Chains the Southern heart to bind.