"Take him and welcome!" the surgeon said: "Much your doctor can help the dead!" And so we took him and brought him where, The balm was sweet on the summer air; And we laid him down on a wholesome bed-- Utter Lazarus, heel to head! Weary War with the bated breath, Skeleton boy against skeleton Death, Months of torture, how many such! Weary weeks of the stick and crutch! Still a glint in the steel-blue eye, Spoke of the spirit that wouldn't die. And didn't! nay more! in death's despite, The crippled skeleton learned to write! "Dear mother," at first, of course, and then, "Dear Captain" inquiring about the "men," Captain's answer--"Of eighty and five, Giffin and I are left alive!" "Johnston's pressed at the front, they say!" Little Giffin was up and away. A tear, his first, as he bade good-bye, Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye; "I'll write, if spared." There was news of a fight, But none of Giffin! he did not write! I sometimes fancy that were I a king Of the princely knights of the Golden Ring, With the song of the minstrel in mine ear, And the tender legend that trembles here, I'd give the best on his bended knee, The whitest soul of my chivalry, For little Giffin of Tennessee! [Illustration: General J. E. B. Stuart.] STUART. By MRS. HENRY J. VOSE. Music by A. E. BLACKMAR. [The music of this song can be obtained of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass.] Oh! mother of States and of men, Bend low thy queenly head, On his shield is borne to thy arms again, Thy youngest, fairest dead; Drop tears like rain for that strong heart stilled, For that dauntless spirit fled! Sleep well, O stainless knight, 'Neath the folds of the starry cross, For the day now breaks o'er the long, long night Of our anguish, peril and loss; But alas! for the eyes that smiled on death, And the life that held life dross. They say thine ancestral line, Swayed the scepter, and wore the crown; But none girded a nobler sword than thine, Nor more stainless life laid down; And we ask no gleam from their grand old past, To brighten thy young renown. On the field thy life was giv'n, Where our best blood has been poured; At the feet of our country's God, in heaven, Thou hast laid another sword, When Jackson's head was so lately bowed, The tried soldier of the Lord. Oh, swords of the South! like flame, Leap forth for this life-blood shed, Strike the foe till he flies from the field in shame, Sheathe not till the hilt is red! And redeem the land that enshrines in her heart, The graves of her glorious dead! ONLY A SOLDIER. By MAJOR LAMAR FONTAINE. "Only a soldier!" I heard them say, With a heavy heart I turned away, And heaved a sigh. Then watched the tramp of the horses' feet, As the hearse moved slowly down the street, And hot tears dimmed my eye.