THE PICKET BEFORE BULL RUN. 155 We are stronger, and are better, Something beautiful is vanished, My THE PICKET BEFORE BULL RUN. A Life Sketch. JOHN WILLIAM DAY. gun shines in the misty air, The fog in the vale hangs chill and cold, For light pales up to each fading star; My mate sleeps on, as a weary child, 156 THE PICket before bull run. For him the prayers of a household band This night o'er the cloudy stair have striven, 'Tis still; my heart, in the early morn, Though lit on a shrine of crumbling mould The chant of fame in a far-off choir, A stealthy tread in yon thicket's brow 'Tis the foeman stirs each weary limb; A shot! aha! 'tis their parting word; And our captain points with waving blade, "Fall back, boys! back to your farm-house wall. On, on through the woodland's tangled shade!" Up, boy; 'tis our bugle call. THE SONG OF SEVENTY. In vain! it calls to thine ear in vain, For night must fall on thy closing race, The mourner bend in the holy fane For a martyred Saviour's grace. The blanket's wet with thy brightening blood, Where thy conquering pinions fly. He rests in peace 'neath the old oak shade — Their winds o'er the slumberer go; THE SONG OF SEVENTY. TUPPER. I AM not- I cannot be old, Though threescore years and ten I am not old; though friends and foes And left me alone to my joys or my woes, 157 158 THE SONG OF SEVENTY. I am not old—I cannot be old, Though tottering, wrinkled, and gray; Though my eyes are dim, and my marrow is cold, Call me not old to-day. For early memories round me throng, Old times, and manners, and men, As I look behind on my journey so long, I look behind, and am once more young, And my heart can sing, as of Before they called me old. yore it sung, I do not see her- the old wife there But I look on her blooming, and soft, and fair I do not see you, daughters and sons, And as my grandson rides on my knee, I can well recollect I was merry as he — 'Tis not long since it cannot be long, My years so soon were spent — GOOD AND BETTER. Since I was a boy, both straight and strong; A dream, a dream — it is all a dream; A strange, sad dream, good sooth; For old as I am, and old as I seem, My heart is full of youth. Eye hath not seen, tongue hath not told, 159 How buoyant and bold, though it seem to grow old, Is the heart forever young. Forever young, — though life's old age Hath every nerve unstrung; The heart, the heart, is a heritage GOOD AND BETTER. ANON. A FATHER sat by the chimney-post, When a man of merit comes to woo? And, father, what of this pain in my breast? |