DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER.

BY GEORGE H. BOKER.

George Henry Boker, the American poet, was born in Philadelphia in 1823, and died there in 1890. He was educated at Princeton, and studied law, but never practiced. In 1871 he was made Minister Resi

dent to Turkey, and from 1875 to 1879 he was Minister to Russia.

He

wrote several volumes of verse and the tragedies "Francesca da Rimini," "Anne Boleyn," and "Leonore de Guzman."

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 might,
Sleep for ever 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 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!

53

Sidney Lanier was born at Macon, Ga., in 1842. On account of ill health he went to Baltimore, where for a while he played the flute in the famous Peabody concerts-he was passionately fond of music and brought marvelous harmonies out of his flute. In 1879 he became lecturer in English literature at the Johns Hopkins university, Baltimore. He died at Lynn, N. C., in 1881. He wrote a novel, "Tiger Lilies," "Centennial Ode," "Science of English Verse," "The English Novel and Its Development," and a volume of poems.

Look off, dear love, across the sallow sands,

And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea, How long they kiss in sight of all the lands, Ah! longer, longer, we.

Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun,
As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine,
And Cleopatra night drinks all. "Tis done,
Love, lay thy hand in mine.

Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart;
Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands.

O, night! divorce our sun and sky apart,
Never our lips our hands.

(COPYRIGHT BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.)

I stood on the bridge at midnight,

As the clocks were striking the hour,

And the moon rose o'er the city

Behind the dark church tower.

I saw her bright reflection

In the waters under me,
Like a golden goblet falling
And sinking into the sea.

And far in the hazy distance
Of that lovely night in June
The blaze of the flaming furnace
Gleamed redder than the moon.

Among the long, black rafters

The wavering shadows lay,

And the current that came from the ocean
Seemed to lift and bear them away;

As, sweeping and eddying through them,

Rose the belated tide,

And, streaming into the moonlight,

The seaweed floated wide.

And like those waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o'er me
That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, O, how often,

In the days that had gone by,

I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, O, how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide!

For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me

Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me

It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river

On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands
Of care-encumbered men,

Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro

The young heart hot and restless,

And the old subdued and slow!