THE BATTLE-FIELD.

BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encounter'd in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gush'd the life-blood of her brave—
Gush'd warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,

And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry ;

O! be it never heard again.

Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.
A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year.
A wild and many-weapon'd throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot.

The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown-yet faint thou not,

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THE DEPARTED.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The hissing, stinging bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.

Truth crush'd to earth, shall rise again:
The eternal years of GoD are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who help'd thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,

1

Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd The blast of triumph o'er thy grave,

And they glide above our memories
Like shadows over streams;

But where the cheerful lights of home
In constant lustre burn,

The departed, the departed

Can never more return!

The good, the brave, the beautiful,

How dreamless is their sleep,

Where rolls the dirge-like music

Of the ever-tossing deep!

THE DEPARTED.

Or where the hurrying night-winds
Pale winter's robes have spread
Above their narrow palaces,

In the cities of the dead!

I look around and feel the awe
Of one who walks alone

Among the wrecks of former days,
In mournful ruin strown;

I start to hear the stirring sounds
Among the cypress trees,
For the voice of the departed
Is borne upon the breeze.

That solemn voice! it mingles with
Each free and careless strain;
I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy
Will cheer my heart again.
The melody of summer waves,

The thrilling notes of birds,

Can never be so dear to me

As their remember'd words.

I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles
Still on me sweetly fall,
Their tones of love I faintly hear
My name in sadness call.

I know that they are happy,
With their angel-plumage on,
But my heart is very desolate
To think that they are gone.

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Now the birds of Autumn shiver,

Where the wither'd beech-leaves quiver,

O'er the dark and lazy river,

In the rocky dell.

Now the mist is on the mountains,

Reddening in the rising sun;

Now the flowers around the fountains

Perish one by one:

Not a spire of grass is growing,

But the leaves that late were glowing,
Now its blighted green are strowing
With a mantle dun.

Now the torrent brook is stealing

Faintly down the furrow'd glade— Not as when in winter pealing,

Such a din is made,

That the sound of cataracts falling

Gave no echo so appalling,

As its hoarse and heavy brawling
In the pine's black shade.

Darkly blue the mist is hovering

Round the chifted rock's bare heightAll the bordering mountains covering

With a dim, uncertain light :

INCOMPREHENSIBILITY OF GOD.

Now, a fresher wind prevailing,
Wide its heavy burden sailing,
Deepens as the day is failing,
Fast the gloom of night.

Slow the blood-stain'd moon is riding

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INCOMPREHENSIBILITY OF GOD.

BY ELIZABETH TOWNSEND.

WHERE art thou? Thou! Source and Support of all That is or seen or felt; Thyself unseen,

Unfelt, unknown-alas! unknowable !

I look abroad among thy works: the sky,
Vast, distant, glorious with its world of suns,
Life-giving earth, and ever-moving main,
And speaking winds, and ask if these are Thee!
The stars that twinkle on, the eternal hills,
The restless tide's outgoing and return,
The omnipresent and deep-breathing air-
Though hail'd as gods of old, and only less-
Are not the Power I seek; are thine, not Thee!
I ask Thee from the past; if in the years,
Since first Intelligence could search its source,
Or in some former, unremember'd being

(If such, perchance, were mine), did they behold Thee?