How sleep the brave who sink to rest
By all their Country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall a while repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there.

WILLIAM COLLINS.

NOTE.-Selections appropriate for Memorial Day will be found under Emancipation Day, Lincoln's Birthday, Flag Day, and under Grant, Jackson, Sherman, Sheridan, and other Civil War generals.

SUCH IS THE DEATH THE SOLDIER DIES

Such is the death the soldier dies:-
He falls, the column speeds away;
Upon the dappled grass he lies,
His brave heart following, still, the fray.

The smoke wraiths drift among the trees, The battle storms along the hill;

The glint of distant arms he sees, He hears his comrades shouting still.

A glimpse of far-borne flags, that fade And vanish in the rolling din:

He knows the sweeping charge is made, The cheering lines are closing in.

Unmindful of his mortal wound, He faintly calls and seeks to rise;

But weakness drags him to the ground:Such is the death the soldier dies.

ROBERT BURNS WILSON.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;

No more on Life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,

And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance

Now swells upon the wind;
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;

No braying horn nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their pluméd heads are bowed;
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,

The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past;
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;

No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;

Nor shall your glory be forgot

While Fame her record keeps,

Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanished age hath flown,
The story how ye fell;

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,

Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.

THEODORE O'HARA.

DIRGE FOR A 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 night,

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!

*In memory of Gen. Philip Kearny, killed September, 1862.

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 weeps 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 HENRY BOKER.

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY

By the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead:

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment-day;
Under the one, the Blue,
Under the other, the Gray.