THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH.

A BALLAD OF '61.

BY JOHN SAVAGE.

I.

Oh, mother, have you heard the news?"
"Oh, father, is it true?"

"Oh, brother, were I but a man
"Oh, husband, they shall rue ! "

Thus, passionately, asked the boy,
And thus the sister spoke,

And thus the dear wife to her mate,

The words they could not choke.

"The news! what news?" 66 Oh, bitter newsthey've fired upon the Flag

The Flag no foreign foe could blast, the traitors down would drag."

THE ROMAN TWINS.

BY A. J. H. DUGANNE.

'Twas told by Roman soothsayers, What time they read the stars, That Romulus and Remus

Sprang from the loins of Mars: That Romulus and Remus

Were twin-born on the earth, And in the lap of a she-wolf Were suckled from their birth. By Heaven! I think this legendThis ancient Roman myth

For mine own time, and mine own clime, Is full of pregnant pith.

Romulus stood with Remus,

And plowed the Latian loam,
And traced, by yellow Tiber,
The nascent walls of Rome;
Then laughed the dark twin, Remus,
And scoffed his brother's toil,
And over the bounds of Romulus
He leaped upon his soil.

By Heaven! I think that Remus
And Romulus at bay,

Of Slavery's strife and Liberty's life
Were antetypes that day!

The sucklings of the she-wolf
Stood face to face in wrath,
And Romulus swept Remus

Like stubble from his path;
Then crested he with temples

The Seven Hills of his home, And builded there, by Tiber,

The eternal walls of Rome! By Heaven! I think this legend Hath store of pregnant pith; For mine own time, and mine own clime 'Tis more than Roman myth!

Like Romulus and Remus,
Out of the loins of Mars,
Our Slavery and our Liberty
Were born from cruel wars.
To both the Albic she-wolf
Her bloody suck did give,
And one must slay the other,
Ere one in peace can live.
By Heaven! this brave old legend

Straight to our hearts comes home¬ When Slavery dies, shall grandly rise Freedom's Eternal Rome!

HALF-MAST.

In Memory of Gen. Nathaniel Lyon, killed at the
Battle of Wilson's Creek, August 10, 1801.
BY "F. G. C."

Unfurl our flag half-mast to-day,
In sorrow, 'mid the clang of wer;
Each crimson stripe is turned to gray,

To black each azure star.

The drooping breeze scarce stirs a fold; The birds complain with fettered breath; The clouds hang sullenly and cold,

For lo a hero's death.