In the terrible face of the dread battle-day;
Nor coffins nor shroudings are here;

Only relics that lay where thickest the fray—

A rent casque and a headless spear.

Far away, tramp on tramp, sounds the march of the foe, Like a storm-wave retreating, spent, fitful and slow; With sound like their spirits that faint as they go

By the red-glowing river, whose waters

Shall darken with sorrow the land where they flow
To the eyes of her desolate daughters.

They are fled-they are gone; but, oh! not as they came;
In the pride of those numbers they staked on the game,
Never more shall they stand in the vanguard of jame,
Never lift the stained sword which they drew;
Never more shall they boast of a glorious name,

Never march with the leal and the true.

Where the wreck of our legions lay stranded and torn
They stole on our ranks in the mist of the morn;
Like the giant of Gaza, their strength it was shorn
Ere those mists have rolled up to the sky;

From the flash of the steel a new day-break seemed börn,
As we sprang up to conquer or die.

The tumult is silenced; the death lots are cast,

And the heroes of battle are slumbering their last;

Do you dream of yon pale form that rode on the blast?
Would ye see it once more, O ye brave?

Yes the broad road to honor is red where ye passed,
And of glory ye asked-but a grave!

ANONYMOUS.

KATE SHELLEY.

[FROM HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE.]

Have you heard how a girl saved the lightning express,-
Of Kate Shelley, whose father was killed on the road?

Were he living to-day, he'd be proud to possess

Such a daughter as Kate. Ah! 'twas grit that she showed On the terrible evening when Donahue's train

Jumped the bridge and went down, in the darkness and rain.

She was only eighteen, but a woman in size,

With a figure as graceful and lithe as a doe;
With peach-blossom cheeks, and with violet eyes,
And teeth and complexion like new-fallen snow;
With a nature unspoiled and unblemished by art-
With a generous soul, and a warm, noble heart!
'Tis evening-the darkness is dense and profound;
Men linger at home by their bright-blazing fires;
The wind wildly howls with a terrible sound,

And shrieks through the vibrating telegraph wires;
The fierce lightning flashes along the dark sky;
The rain falls in torrents; the river rolls by.

The scream of a whistle! the rush of a train!
The sound of a bell! a mysterious light

That flashes and flares through the fast-falling rain!
A rumble! a roar! shrieks of human affright!
The falling of timbers! the space of a breath!
A splash in the river! then darkness and death!

Kate Shelly recoils at the terrible crash!

The sounds of destruction she happens to hear;
She springs to the window, she throws up the sash,
And listens and looks with a feeling of fear.
The tall tree-tops groan, and she hears the faint cry
Of a drowning man down in the river near by.

Her heart feebly flutters, her features grow wan,

And then through her soul in a moment there flies
A forethought that gives her the strength of a man-
She turns to her trembling old mother and cries:
"I must save the express-'twill be here in an hour!"
Then out through the door disappears in the shower.

She flies down the track through the pitiless rain;
She reaches the river-the water below

Whirls and seethes through the timbers. She shudders again: "The bridge! To Moingona God help me to go!"

Then closely about her she gathers her gown
And on the wet ties with a shiver sinks down.

Then carefully over the timbers she creeps

On her hands and her knees, almost holding her breath The loud thunder peals and the wind wildly sweeps,

And struggles to hurry her downward to death; But the thought of the train to destruction so near Removes from her soul every feeling of fear.

With the blood dripping down from each torn, bleeding limb
Slowly over the timbers her dark way she feels;
Her fingers grow numb and her head seems to swim;

Her strength is fast failing-she staggers! she reels!
She falls Ah! the danger is over at last,
Her feet touch the earth, and the long bridge is passed!

In an instant new life seems to come to her form;
She springs to her feet and forgets her despair.
On, on to Moingona! She faces the storm,

She reaches the station—the keeper is there.

"Save the lightning express! No-hang out the red light! There's death on the bridge at the river to-night!"

Out flashes the signal-light, rosy and red;

Then sounds the loud roar of the swift coming train, The hissing of steam, and there, brightly ahead,

The gleam of the headlight illumines the rain.

"Down brakes!" shrieks the whistle, defiant and shrill;

She heeds the red signal—she slackens, she's still!

Ah! noble Kate Shelley, your mission is done;

Your deed that dark night will not fade from our gaze,

An endless renown you have worthily won:

Let the nation be just, and accord you its praise.
Let your name, let your fame, and your courage declare
What a woman can do, and a woman can dare!

EUGENE J. HALL

THE STUDY OF ELOQUENCE.

I cannot conceive anything more excellent, than to be able, by language, to captivate the affections, to charm the understanding, and to impel or restrain the will of whole assemblies, at pleasure. Among every free people, especially in peaceful, settled governments, this single art has always eminently flourished, and always exercised the greatest sway. For what can be more surprising than that, amidst an infinite multitude, one man should appear, who shall be the only, or almost the only man capable of doing what Nature has put in every man's power? Or, can anything impart such exquisite pleasure to the ear and to the intellect, as a speech in which the wisdom and dignity of the sentiments are heightened by the utmost force and beauty of expression?

Is there anything so commanding, so grand, as that the eloquence of one man should direct the inclinations of the people, the consciences of judges, and the majesty of senates? Nay, farther, can aught be esteemed so great, so generous, so public-spirited, as to assist the suppliant, to rear the prostrate, to communicate happiness, to avert danger, and to save a fellow-citizen from exile? Can anything be so necessary, as to keep those arms always in readiness, with which you may defend yourself, attack the profligate, and redress your own, or your country's wrongs?

But let us consider this accomplishment as detached from public business, and from its wonderful efficacy in popular assemblies, at the bar, and in the senate; can anything be more agreeable, or more endearing in private life, than elegant language? For the great characteristic of our nature, and what eminently distinguishes us from brutes, is the faculty of social conversation, the power of expressing our thoughts and sentiments by words. To excel mankind, therefore, in the exercise of that very talent, which gives them the preference to the brute creation, is what everybody must not only admire, but look upon as the just object of the most indefatigable pursuit.

And now, to mention the chief point of all, what other power could have been of sufficient efficacy to bring together the vagrant individuals of the human race; to tame their savage manners; to reconcile them to social life; and, after cities were founded, to mark out laws, forms, and constitutions, for their government? Let me, in a few words, sum up this almost boundless subject. I lay it down as

a maxim, that upon the wisdom and abilities of an accomplished orator, not only his own dignity, but the welfare of vast numbers of individuals, and even of the whole state must greatly depend.

MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO.

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,

The cluster'd spires of Frederick stand,
Green-wall'd by the hills of Maryland,

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as a garden of the Lord,

To the eyes of that famish'd rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early Fall,

When Lee march'd over the mountain wall,

Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapp'd in the morning wind; the sun
Of noon look'd down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bow'd with her fourscore years and ten,

Bravest of all in Frederick town.

She took up the flag the men haul'd down.

In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.