THE BRAVE AT HOME.

THE maid who binds her warrior's sash
With smile that well her pain dissembles,
The while beneath her drooping lash
One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles,
Though Heaven alone records the tear,
And Fame shall never know her story,
Her heart has shed a drop as dear

As e'er bedewed the field of glory!

The wife who girds her husband's sword,
'Mid little ones who weep or wonder,
And bravely speaks the cheering word,
What though her heart be rent asunder,
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear
The bolts of death around him rattle,
Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er

Was poured upon the field of battle!

The mother who conceals her grief

While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,

With no one but her secret God

To know the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod

Received on Freedom's field of honor!

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

DRIVING HOME THE COWS.

OUT of the clover and blue-eyed grass
He turned them into the river lane;
One after another he let them pass,

Then fastened the meadow bars again.

Under the willows, and over the hill,

He patiently followed their sober pace;
The merry whistle for once was still,
And something shadowed the sunny face.

Only a boy! and his father had said

He never could let his youngest go: Two already were lying dead

Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done,

And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun

And stealthily followed the footpath damp.

Across the clover and through the wheat
With resolute heart and purpose grim,

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,
And the blind bat's flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white,
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;
And now, when the cows came back at night,
The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm

That three were lying where two had lain; And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again.

The summer day grew cool and late :

He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming, one by one

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,

Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,But who was it following close behind?

Loosely in the idle air

The empty sleeve of army blue;
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,
Looked out a face that the father knew.

For gloomy prisons will sometimes yawn,
And yield their dead unto life again :
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn
In golden glory at last may wane.

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes;
For the heart must speak when the lips are

dumb:

And under the silent evening skies

Together they followed the cattle home.

KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.

SHERIDAN'S RIDE.

UP from the south, at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door,
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war
Thunder'd along the horizon's bar;
And louder yet into Winchester roll'd
The roar of that red sea uncontroll'd,
Making the blood of the listener cold,
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town,
A good broad highway leading down ;

And there, through the flush of the morning light,

A steed as black as the steeds of night

Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight,
As if he knew the terrible need;

He stretch'd away with his utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south,

The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth,

Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,

Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.

The heart of the steed and the heart of the

master

Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,

Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strain'd to full play,

With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet, the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flow'd
And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind;

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire.

But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire;
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the general saw were the groups
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops;
What was done? what to do? a glance told
him both.

Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath,

He dash'd down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat check'd its course there, because

The sight of the master compell'd it to pause.