Then left he all-a few fond tears, by firmness half concealed,
A blessing, and a parting prayer, and he was in the field--
The field of strife, whose dews are blood, whose breezes War's
hot breath,

Whose fruits are garnered in the grave, whose husbandman is
Death!

Without a murmur, he endured a service new and hard;

But, wearied with a toilsome march, it chanced one night, on guard,

He sank exhausted at his post, and the gray morning found
His prostrate form-a sentinel, asleep, upon the ground!

So, in the silence of the night, aweary, on the sod
Sank the disciples, watching near the suffering Son of God;—
Yet, Jesus, with compassion moved, beheld their heavy eyes,
And, though betrayed to ruthless foes, forgiving, bade them rise!

But God is love, and finite minds can faintly comprehend How gentle Mercy, in His rule, may with stern Justice blend; And this poor soldier, seized and bound, found none to justify, While War's inexorable law decreed that he must die.

'Twas night. In a secluded room, with measured tread, and slow,

A statesman of commanding mien, paced gravely to and fro.
Oppressed, he pondered on a land by civil discord rent;
On brothers armed in deadly strife:-it was the President!

The woes of thirty millions filled his burdened heart with grief;
Embattled hosts, on land and sea, acknowledged him their chief;
And yet, amid the din of war, he heard the plaintive cry
Of that poor soldier, as he lay in prison, doomed to die!

'Twas morning.—On a tented field, and through the heated haze, Flashed back, from lines of burnished arms, the sun's effulgent

blaze;

While, from a sombre prison-house, seen slowly to emerge,
A sad procession, o'er the sward, moved to a muffled dirge.

And in the midst, with faltering step, and pale and anxious face,
In manacles, between two guards, a soldier had his place.

A youth-led out to die ;-and yet, it was not death, but shame, That smote his gallant heart with dread, and shook his manly frame!

Still on, before the marshalled ranks, the train pursued its way Up to the designated spot, whereon a coffin lay

His coffin! And, with reeling brain, despairing-desolateHe took his station by its side, abandoned to his fate!

Then came across his wavering sight strange pictures in the

air;

He saw his distant mountain home; he saw his parents there; He saw them bowed with hopeless grief, through fast-declining

years;

He saw a nameless grave; and then, the vision closed-in tears!

Yet, once again. In double file, advancing, then, he saw
Twelve comrades, sternly set apart to execute the law—
But saw no more: his senses swam-deep darkness settled
round-

And, shuddering, he awaited now the fatal volley'sound!

Then suddenly was heard the noise of steeds and wheels approach

And, rolling through a cloud of dust, appeared a stately coach. On, past the guards, and through the field, its rapid course was

bent,

Till, halting, 'mid the lines was seen the nation's President!

He came to save that stricken soul, now waking from despair; And from a thousand voices rose a shout which rent the air! The pardoned soldier understood the tones of jubilee,

And, bounding from his fetters, blessed the hand that made him

free!

'Twas spring. Within a verdant vale, where Warwick's crystal

tide

Reflected, o'er its peaceful breast, fair fields on either side

Where birds and flowers combined to cheer a sylvan solitudeTwo threatening armies, face to face, in fierce defiance stood!

Two threatening armies! one invoked by injured Liberty-
Which bore above its patriot ranks the Symbol of the Free;
And one, a rebel horde, beneath a flaunting flag of bars,

A fragment, torn by traitorous hands, from Freedom's Stripes and Stars!

A sudden burst of smoke and flame, from many a thundering

gun,

Proclaimed, along the echoing hills, the conflict had begun; While shot and shell athwart the stream with fiendish fury sped, To strew among the living lines the dying and the dead!

Then, louder than the roaring storm, pealed forth the stern command,

"Charge! soldiers, charge!" and, at the word, with shouts, a fearless band,

Two hundred heroes from Vermont, rushed onward, through the

flood,

And upward, o'er the rising ground, they marked their way in blood!

The smitten foe before them fled, in terror, from his postWhile, unsustained, two hundred stood, to battle with a host! Then, turning, as the rallying ranks, with murderous fire, replied, They bore the fallen o'er the field, and through the purple tide!

The fallen!
Was he who

life

And the first who fell in that unequal strife

Mercy sped to save when Justice claimed his

The pardoned soldier! And, while yet the conflict raged aroundWhile yet his life-blood ebbed away through every gaping wound

While yet his voice grew tremulous, and death bedimmed his

eye

He called his comrades to attest, he had not feared to die!
And, in his last expiring breath, a prayer to Heaven was sent―
That God, with His unfailing grace, would bless our President!

THE ROMANCE OF NICK VAN STANN.-SAXE.

I CANNOT Vouch my tale is true,
Nor swear, indeed, 'tis wholly new;
But true or false, or new or old,

I think you'll find it fairly told.

A Frenchman, who had ne'er before
Set foot upon a foreign shore,
Weary of home, resolved to go
And see what Holland had to show.
He didn't know a word of Dutch,
But that could hardly grieve him much;
He thought as Frenchmen always do-
That all the world could "parley-voo!"

At length our eager tourist stands
Within the famous Netherlands,
And, strolling gaily here and there
In search of something rich or rare,
A lordly mansion greets his eyes;
"How beautiful!" the Frenchman cries,
And, bowing to the man who sate
In livery at the garden-gate,
"Pray, Mr. Porter, if you please,
Whose very charming grounds are these?
And-pardon me-be pleased to tell
Who in this splendid house may dwell?"
To which, in Dutch, the puzzled man
Replied what seemed like "Nick Van Stann."

*Niet verstaan-I don't understand.

"Thanks!" said the Gaul, "the owner's taste Is equally superb and chaste;

So fine a house, upon my word,

Not even Paris can afford.

With statues, too, in every niche,

Of course, Monsieur Van Stann is rich,
And lives, I warrant, like a king-
Ah! wealth must be a charming thing!"

In Amsterdam the Frenchman meets
A thousand wonders in the streets,
But most he marvels to behold
A lady dressed in silk and gold.
Gazing with rapture at the dame,
He begs to know the lady's name,
And hears to raise his wonder more—
The very words he heard before!
"Mercie!" he cries, "well, on my life,
Milord has got a charming wife;
'Tis plain to see, this Nick Van Stann
Must be a very happy man!"

Next day, our tourist chanced to pop
His head within a lottery-shop,
And there he saw, with staring eyes,
The drawing of the Mammoth Prize.
"Ten Millions!-'Tis a pretty sum;
I wish I had as much at home!
I'd like to know, as I'm a sinner,
What lucky fellow is the winner?"
Conceive our traveller's amaze

To hear again the hackneyed phrase !
"What! No?-not Nick Van Stann again?

Faith! he's the luckiest of men!
You may be sure we don't advance
So rapidly as that in France,
A house, the finest in the land;
A lovely garden, nicely planned;