res
Are quite put aside, and her countenance wears
A look of enjoyment as eager, as bright,
As Santa Claus brings little dreamers to-night;
For Douglass away in his camp, is to share
The daintiest cates that her larder can spare.

The turkey, well seasoned, and tenderly browned,
Is flanked by the spiciest _a la mode_ "round;"
The great "priestly ham," in its juiciest pride,
Is there,--with the tenderest surloin beside;
Neat bottles, suggestive of ketchups and wines,
And condiments racy, of various kinds;
And firm rolls of butter as yellow as gold,
And patties and biscuit most rare to behold,
And sauces that richest of odors betray,--
Are marshalled in most appetizing array.
Then Beverly brings of his nuts a full store,
And Archie has apples, a dozen or more;
While Sophy, with gratified housewifery, makes
Her present of spicy "Confederate cakes."

And then in a snug little corner, there lies
A pacquet will brighten the orphan boy's eyes;
For Beverly claims it a pleasure to use
His last cherish'd hoardings in buying him shoes.
Sophy's socks too are there; and she catches afar--
"There's _somebody_ cares for me, Colonel Dunbar!"

What subtlest of essences, sovereign to cheer--
What countless, uncatalogu'd tokens are here!
What lavender'd memories, tenderly green,
Lie hidden, these grosser of viands between!
What food for the heart-life,--unreckon'd, untold--
What manna enclosed in its chalice of gold!
What caskets of sweets that Love only unlocks,--
What mysteries Douglass will find in the box!

VI.

The lull of the Winter is over; and Spring
Comes back, as delicious and buoyant a thing,
As airy, and fairy, and lightsome, and bland,
As if not a sorrow was dark'ning the land;--
So little has Nature of passion or part
In the woes and the throes of humanity's heart.

The wild tide of battle runs red,--dashes high,
And blots out the splendour of earth and of sky;
The blue air is heavy, and sulph'rous, and dun,
And the breeze on its wings bears the boom of the gun.
In faster and fiercer and deadlier shocks,
The thunderous billows are hurled on the rocks;
And our Valley becomes, amid Spring's softest breath,
The valley, alas! of the shadow of death.
The crash of the onset,--the plunge and the roll,
Reach dow