away, because the bloodhounds of my country's murderers lurked from every corner on that night, and on this day, to lead to prison those who dare to show a pious remembrance of the beloved dead.

To-day, a smile on the lips of a Magyr is taken for a crime of defiance to tyranny, and a tear in his eye is equivalent to a revolt; and yet I have seen, with my wandering soul, thousands performing the work of patriotic gratitude.

And I saw more.

When the pious offerers had stolen away, I saw the honored dead, half risen from their tombs, looking to the offerings, and whispering gloomily, "Still a cypress, and still no flower of joy? Is there still the chill of winter and the gloom of night over thee, Fatherland? Are we not yet revenged?"

And the sky of the East reddened suddenly, and boiled with bloody flames; and from the far, far west, a lightning flashed like a star-spangled stripe, and within its light a young eagle mounted and soared toward the bloody flames of the East; and as he drew near, upon his approaching, the boiling flames changed into a radiant morning sun. Then a voice was heard from above, in answer to the question of the dead: "Sleep, sleep yet a little time. Mine is the revenge! I will make the stars of the West the sun of the East; and when ye next awake, ye will find the flower of joy upon your cold bed."

And the dead took the twig of cypress, the sign of resurrection, into their bony hands, and lay down.

LOUIS KOSSUTH.1

1 The visit of Kossuth to the United States was so cordially responded to by the American people, that, in addition to popular ovations, the enthusiasm of Congress and many State Legislatures induced the patriot to expect material aid to Hungary in her struggle for independence. Bonds were issued, and many were sold, in aid of his plans.

7. THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW.

WOE for my vine-clad home,

That it should ever be so dark to me,

With its bright threshold and its whispering tree;

That I should ever come,

Fearing the lonely echo of a tread,

Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead!

Lead on, my orphan boy,

Thy home is not so desolate to thee,

And the low shiver in the linden-tree,

May bring to thee a joy;

But, oh, how dark is the bright home before thee,
To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee!

Lead on, for thou art now

My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken,
And the strong heart I leaned upon is broken;
And I have seen his brow,

The forehead of my upright one and just,
Trod by the hoof of battle, to the dust.

He will not meet thee there,

Who blessed thee at the even-tide, my son;
And when the shadows of the night steal on,
He will not call to prayer:

The lips that melted, giving thee to God,
Are in the icy keeping of the sod.

Ay, my own boy, thy sire

Is with the sleepers of the valley cast,
And the proud glory of my life hath past,

With his high glance of fire.

Woe, that the linden and the vine should bloom,

And a just man be gathered to the tomb!

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS

8. DIRGE FOR THE SOLDIER.

CLOSE his eyes; his work is done.
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon, or set of sun,

Hand of man, or kiss of woman?
Lay him low; lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? He cannot know.
Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight,
Proved his truth by his endeavor;
Let him sleep in solemn right, -
Sleep forever and forever.

Lay him low; lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? He cannot know.
Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars,

Roll the drum, and fire the volley;

What to him are all our wars,
What but death-bemocking folly?
Lay him low; lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? He cannot know;
Lay him low!

Leave him to God's watching eye,

Trust him to the hand that made him :

Mortal love sweeps idly by ;

God alone has power to aid him.

Lay him low; lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? He cannot know.
Lay him low!

GEORGE H. BOKER.

9. 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 presses,
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.

THE NOISE OF ARMS.

THE noise of arms deafens the voice of the laws.

MONTAIGNE.