Over our Washington's river
Sunrise beams rosy and fair:
Sunset on Sangamon fairer,-

Father and martyr lies there.

2. Kings under pyramids slumber,
Sealed in the Libyan sands:
Princes in gorgeous cathedrals,

Decked with the spoil of the lands:
Kinglier, princelier sleeps he,
Couched 'mid the prairies serene,
Only the turf and the willow

Him and God's heaven between:
Temple nor column to cumber
Verdure and bloom of the sod,-
So, in the vale by Beth-peor,
Moses was buried of God.

3. Break into blossom, O prairies!
Snowy and golden and red:
Peers of the Palestine lilies
Heap for your Glorious Dead!
Roses as fair as of Sharon,
Branches as stately as palm,
Odors as rich as the spices,-
Cassia and aloes and balm,-
Mary, the loved, and Salome,

All with a gracious accord,
Ere the first glow of the morning,

Brought to the tomb of the Lord.

4. Wind of the West! breathe around him
Soft as the saddened air's sigh,
When, to the summit of Pisgah,
Moses had journeyed to die :
Clear as its anthem that floated

Wide o'er the Moabite plain,
Low, with the wail of the people,
Blending its burdened refrain.

Rarer, O wind! and diviner

Sweet as the breeze that went by,

When, over Olivet's mountain,
Jesus was lost in the sky.

5. Not for thy sheaves nor savannas
Crown we thee, proud Illinois !

Here in his grave is thy grandeur,
Born of his sorrow thy joy.
Only the tomb by Mount Zion,

Hewn for the Lord, do we hold
Dearer than his in thy prairies,
Girdled with harvests of gold!
Still for the world, through the ages,
Wreathing with glory his brow,
He shall be liberty's savior,-

Freedom's Jerusalem thou!

CLXII.-OVER THE RIVER.

1. OVER the river they beckon to me

NANCY A. W. PRIEST.

Loved ones who've crossed to the further side: The gleam of the snowy robes I see,

But their voices are drowned in the rushing tide. There's one, with ringlets of sunny gold,

And eyes, the reflection of heaven's own blue: He crossed in the twilight, gray and cold,

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels that met him there: The gates of the city we could not see ;Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands waiting to welcome me!

2. Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another-the household pet:
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale-

Darling Minnie! I see her yet!

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark:
We watched it glide from the silver sands,

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark.
We know she is safe on the further side,

Where all the ransomed and angels be;Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me!

3. For none return from those quiet shores,

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale:

We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail,

And, lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts:
They cross the stream, and are gone for aye:
We may not sunder the veil apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day:
We only know that their bark no more

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea:
Yet, somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch and beckon and wait for me!
4. And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,

I shall one day stand by the water cold,

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar:
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail :
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand:
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit land:
I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet shall the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death shall carry me!

CLXIII.-THE BAYONET CHARGE.

1. Nor a sound, not a breath!
And as still as death,

NATHAN D. URNER.

As we stand on the steep in our bayonet's shine:
All is tumult below-

Surging friend, surging foe;

But, not a hair's breadth moves our adamant line-
Waiting so grimly.

The battle smoke lifts

From the valley, and drifts

Round the hill where we stand, like a pall for the world;
And a gleam now and then

Shows the billows of men,

In whose black, boiling surge we are soon to be hurled,
Redly and dimly.

There's the word! "Ready all!"

2. See the serried points fall

The grim horizontal so bright and so bare!

Then the other word-Ha!

We are moving! Huzza!

We snuff the burnt powder, we plunge in the glare,
Rushing to glory!

Down the hill, up the glen,

O'er the bodies of men.

Then on with a cheer, to the roaring redoubt!

Why stumble so, Ned?

No answer: he's dead!

And there's Dutch Peter down, with his life leaping out,
Crimson and gory!

3. On! on! Do not think

Of the falling; but drink

Of the mad, living cataract torrent of war!

On! on let them feel

The cold vengeance of steel!

Catch the Captain-he's hit! 'Tis a scratch-nothing more! Forward forever!

Huzza! Here's a trench!

In and out of it! Wrench

From the jaws of the cannon the guerdon of Fame!
Charge! charge! with a yell

Like the shriek of a shell

O'er the abatis, on through the curtain of flame!
Back again! Never!

4. The rampart! 'Tis crossed

It is ours! It is lost!

No-another dash now and the glacis is won!
Huzza! What a dust!

Hew them down. Cut and thrust!

A T-i-g-a-r! brave lads, for the red work is done-
Victory! Victory!

CLXIV. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

1. ONE more unfortunate,

Weary of breath,

Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care!

THOMAS HOOD.

Fashioned so slenderly-
Young, and so fair!

2. Look at her garments,
Clinging like cerements,
While the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing:
Take her up instantly,

Loving, not loathing!

3. Touch her not scornfully!
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly-
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

4. Make no deep scrutiny,

Into her mutiny,

Rash and undutiful:

Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

5. Still, for all slips of hersOne of Eve's family

Wipe those poor lips of hers,

Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the comb-
Her fair auburn tresses-
While wonderment guesses,

Where was her home?

6. Who was her father?

Who was her mother?

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?

7. Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!