U-ni-on, are _you_ nigh on? It's time we were there, and the fight were won; O Old Samson! you never knew What _this_ Sam's son, when he tries, can do; Your jaw-bone made the enemy flee-- They shall walk jaw-bone from Tennessee. U-ni-on--you an' I on! It's time that you an' I were gone. Reader, if the great call should come, drafting the whole North, why, pack up your blankets and travel, light of heart, remembering that when _you_ are there, the secession-pool of rebellion must 'dry up' in a hurry. Much has been said as to the degree of complicity in which the confederates were guilty in stirring up savages against us. In a 'Secesh' poem which 'De Bow' declares to be among the best which belong to the war, we find the following, which seems to have been written in the Indian interest: 'Our women have hung their harps away, And they scowl on your brutal bands, While the nimble poignard dares the day In their dear defiant hands; They will strip their tresses to string our bows Ere the Northern sun is set; There's faith in their unrelenting woes, There's life in the old land yet.' Now it is very evident that if the author of the lyric was not describing Indian squaws when he alluded to the 'scowling' females whose 'nimble poignards dare the day,' he certainly _ought_ to have been. But the allusion to 'the bows,' settles the matter. Bows and arrows are not used in the confederate army, though they are by Albert Pike's Indians--enough said. But if the secessionists _will_ come North, and hemp should give out, we may find a new application, with a slight alteration to the verse in question. For then our women of the North may 'Strip their tresses to string _your_ beaux.' And serve 'em right, too. That's all. But really, if this be, in the opinion of the first magazine of the South, one of the _best_ of Southern poems, what _must_ the 'common sort' be?' GONE. BY H. L. SPENCER. Gone! the South winds come again, Sweeping over bill and plain, Murmuring through the sombre pines, Singing o'er the budding vines, Bringing with them birds that sing All the glories of the spring; But they bring not back to me The boy without whose smile earth's smiles I never see. His bed the wood-nymphs strow With all the flowers that blow, And the sweet tones of their minim harps His quiet slumbers lull; For Nature was his joy, And he was Nature's toy: Where sleeps the peerless boy, She scatters with a lavish hand The bright, the beautiful. He reigns, though lost to sight! Through the long day and night Is his sweet influence shed Around the paths I tread: He is not lost--ah! no--he is not dead. Not dead! his voice I hear When South winds murmur near; I feel, when stars arise, His soft and loving eyes, And from the forest flower His face at evening hour Smiles on me as of old, And dreamily my neck his tiny arms enfold.