Stonewall Jackson's tread.

The love we bore in other days
No difference can bar,
And truce was kept at Vernon's grave
However rolled the war.
Like thee, oh river! human states
By many a rapid rage,
Before they reach the deeper tides
And glass the perfect age.

Brief is the span since Calvert's huts
Were still the Indian's sport,
And Braddock's columns stumbled on
The borderer Cresap's fort,
Till now the tinted hills grow fond
Around yon marble height,
Where Freedom calmly rules a realm
That tires her eagle's flight.

And still the wild deer sip thy springs,
The wild duck haunt thy coves,
And all the year the fisher fleets
Bask o'er thine oyster groves;
The strange new bass thy trout pursue.
And where the herring spawn,
The blue sky opens to let through
Thine own majestic swan.

Haste, Nature! Raze yon shiftless halls,
Where pride penurious bides,
The while the richness of the hills
Runs off to choke the tides;
Where every negro cabin stood
A freeman's hearthside warm,
And broad estates of bramble wood
Expunge in many a farm!

Fill and revive these fair arcades,
O race to Freedom born!
The tinkling herds that roam the glades,
The barge's mellow horn,
The lonesome sails that come and go
Repeat the wish again:
The ardent river yearns to know
Not memories, but MEN!

TELL-TALE FEET.

The din of the day is quiet now, and the street is deserted. The last
bacchanal reeled homeward an hour ago. The most belated cabman has
passed out of hearing. The one poor wretch who comes nightly to the
water-side has closed her complaint; I saw her shawl float over the
parapet as she flung her lean arms against the sky and went down with
a scream. Here, in the busiest spot of the mightiest city, there is no
human creature abroad; but footsteps are yet ringing on the
desolateness. They are heard only by me. There are two of them; the
first light, timorous, musical; the other harsh and heavy, as if shod
with steel. I recognize them with a thrill; for they have haunted me
many years, and they are speaking to me now. The one is soothing and
pleading, and it implores me to write; but the second is like the
striking of a revengeful knell. "Confession and Pardon," says the one;
"Horror and Remorse," echoes the other. T