And I know, that, when our couriers With news of victory come, They will bring a bitter message Of hopeless grief to some. Again I turn to the woodlands, And shudder as I see The mock-grape's[B] blood-red banner Hung out on the cedar-tree; And I think of days of slaughter, And the night-sky red with flames, On the Chattahoochee's meadows, And the wasted banks of the James. Oh, for the fresh spring-season, When the groves are in their prime, And far away in the future Is the frosty autumn-time! Oh, for that better season, When the pride of the foe shall yield, And the hosts of God and freedom March back from the well-won field; And the matron shall clasp her first-born With tears of joy and pride; And the scarred and war-worn lover Shall claim his promised bride! The leaves are swept from the branches; But the living buds are there, With folded flower and foliage, To sprout in a kinder air. October, 1864. FOOTNOTES: [B] _Ampelopsis_, mock-grape. I have here literally translated the botanical name of the Virginia creeper,--an appellation too cumbrous for verse. FIVE-SISTERS COURT AT CHRISTMAS-TIDE. For a business street Every Lane certainly is very lazy. It sets out just to make a short passage between two thoroughfares, but, though forced first to walk straight by the warehouses that wall in its entrance, it soon begins to loiter, staring down back alleys, yawning into courts, plunging into stable-yards, and at length standing irresolute at three ways of getting to the end of its journey. It passes by artisans' shops, and keeps two or three masons' cellars and carpenters' lofts, as if its slovenly buildings needed perpetual repairs. It has not at all the air of once knowing better days. It began life hopelessly; and though the mayor and common council and board of aldermen, with ten righteous men, should daily march through it, the broom of official and private virtue could not sweep it clean of its slovenliness. But one of its idle turnings does suddenly end in a virtuous court: here Every Lane may come, when it indulges in vain aspirations for a more respectable character, and take refuge in the quiet demeanor of Every Court. The court is shaped like the letter T with an L to it. The upright beam connects it with Every Lane, and maintains a non-committal character, since its sides are blank walls; upon one side of the cross-beam are four houses, while a fifth occupies the diminutive L of the court, esconcing itself in a snug corner, as if ready to rush out at the cry of "All in! all in!" Gardens fill the unoccupied sides, toy-gardens, but large enough to raise all the flowers needed for this toy-court. The five houses, built exactly alike, are two and a half stories high, and have each a dormer-window, curtained with white dimity, so that they look like five elderly dames in caps; and the