Of the blight upon the heather, And the frost upon the hill, And the whistling, whistling ever, And the never, never still; Of the little leaflets falling, With the sweetest, saddest sound-- And the soldier--oh! the soldier, In his blanket on the ground. Thus I lingered in my dreaming, In my dreaming far away, Till the spirit's picture-painting Seemed as vivid as the day; And the moonlight faded softly From the window opened wide, And the faithful, faithful pointer Nestled closer by my side. And I knew that 'neath the starlight, Though the chilly frosts may fall, That the soldier will be dreaming, Dreaming often of us all. So I gave my spirit's painting Just the breathing of a sound, For the dreaming, dreaming soldier, In his slumber on the ground. _November 24, 1861._ THE DYING SOLDIER. BY JAMES A. MECKLIN. Gather round him where he's lying, Hush your footsteps, whisper low, For a soldier here is dying, In the sunset's radiant glow. Beating, beating, slowly beating, Runs the life-blood through his frame; Swift the soldier's breath is fleeting, And he calls his mother's name: "Mother, mother, come and kiss me, Ere my spirit fades away, For I know you oft will miss me, When you watch the sinking day. "Brother, sister, nearer, nearer! Place, oh, place your hands in mine, You whose love than life was dearer, Let your arms around me twine. "Father, see the sun is fading From the hill-tops of the west, And the valley night is shading-- Farewell, loved ones, I'm at rest." Dying, dying! yes, he's dying! Close the eyelids, let him rest; No more sorrow, no more sighing, E'er again shall heave his breast. Sleeping, sleeping, calmly sleeping, In the church-yard cold and drear, And the wintry winds are heaping O'er him leaflets brown and sear. And he's resting, where forever Clang of trumpet, roll of drum, Roar of cannon, never, never, Never more to him shall come. PENSACOLA: TO MY SON. BY M. S. Beautiful the land may be, Its groves of palm, its laurel-trees, And o'er the smiling, murm'ring sea, Soft may blow the Southern breeze-- And land, and sea, and balmy air, May make a home of beauty there. And bright beneath Floridian sky, The world to thy young fancy seems: I see the light that fills thine eye, I know what spirit rules thy dreams; But flower-gemmed shore and rippling sea Are darker than the grave to me; For storms are lowering in that sky, And sad may be that fair land's doom; Full soon, perhaps, the battle-cry May wake the cannon's fearful boom, And shot and shell from o'er the waves May plow the rose's bed for graves.