A general dance followed. In the midst of it the old negro who had called Joe out, again came in, and making his way to where Preston and I were standing, said, in a low tone: 'Massa Robert, Ole Jack am dyin'; will 'ou come?' 'Dying!' exclaimed Preston. 'Yes, I'll be there at once. Kirke, you remember the old man--come with me.' FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: This was the conjuror's bag of the Africans. It is called 'waiter,' or 'kunger,' by the Southern blacks, and is supposed to have the power to charm away evil spirits, and to do all manner of miraculously good things for its wearer. Those that I have seen are harmless little affairs, consisting only of small pieces of rags sewed up in coarse muslin.] [Footnote 2: The name of the African god.] [Footnote 3: Usually there is no marriage performed at the union of slaves. They simply agree, tacitly or otherwise, to live together till death or their master parts them.] THE CAPTAIN OF '63 TO HIS MEN. Come to the field, boys, come! Come at the call of the stirring drum-- Come, boys, come! Yonder's the foe to our country's fame, Waiting to blot out her very name-- Where is the man that would see her shame? Come, boys, come! Form, my brave men, form! Stand in good order to 'meet the storm'-- Form, men, form! Sacred to us is our native land! Shrivelled for aye be each traitor hand Lifted to shatter so bright a band-- Form, men, form! Charge, my soldiers, charge! From the steep hill to the river's marge, Charge! charge! charge! Think of our wives and mothers dear; Think of the hopes that have led us here; Think of the hearts that will give us cheer-- Charge, boys, charge! Die with me, boys, die! There's a place for all in yon bannered sky, If we die, boys, die! Think of the names that are shining bright, Written in letters of living light! Rather than give up the sacred Right, Let's die, boys, die! THE VISION OF THE MONK GABRIEL. 'Tis the soft twilight. 'Round the shining fender, Two at my feet and one upon my knee, Dreamy-eyed Elsie, bright-lipped Isabel, And thou, my golden-headed Raphael, My fairy, small and slender, Listen to what befel Monk Gabriel, In the old ages ripe with mystery-- Listen, my darlings, to the legend tender. A bearded man, with grave, but gentle look-- His silence sweet with sounds With which the simple-hearted Spring abounds: Lowing of cattle from the abbey grounds, Chirping of insect, and the building rook, Mingled like murmurs of a dreaming shell; Quaint tracery of bird and branch and brook Flitting across the pages of his book, Until the very words a freshness took-- Deep in his cell, Sate the Monk Gabriel.