uring shroud.
My forehead was wet with the foam of the spray,
My heart sighed in secret for those far away;
When slowly the morning advanced from the east,
The toil and the noise of the tempest had ceased;
The peal from a land I ne'er saw, seemed to say,
"Let the stranger forget every sorrow to-day!"
Yet the short-lived emotion was mingled with pain,
I thought of those eyes I should ne'er see again;
I thought of the kiss, the last kiss which I gave,
And a tear of regret fell unseen on the wave;
I thought of the schemes fond affection had planned,
Of the trees, of the towers, of my own native land.
But still the sweet sounds, as they swelled to the air,
Seemed tidings of pleasure, though mournful to bear,
And I never, till life and its shadows shall end,
Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend!

_W.L. Bowles._

You Put No Flowers on My Papa's Grave

With sable-draped banners and slow measured tread,
The flower laden ranks pass the gates of the dead;
And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests
Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom, on his breast.
Ended at last is the labor of love;
Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move--
A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief,
Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief;
Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child
Besought him in accents with grief rendered wild:

"Oh! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave--
Why, why, did you pass by my dear papa's grave?
I know he was poor, but as kind and as true
As ever marched into the battle with you;
His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot,
You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not!
For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there,
And thought him too lowly your offerings to share.
He didn't die lowly--he poured his heart's blood
In rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sod
Of the breastworks which stood in front of the fight--
And died shouting, 'Onward! for God and the right!'
O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave,
But you haven't put _one_ on _my_ papa's grave.
If mamma were here--but she lies by his side,
Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died!"

"Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried the chief,
"This young orphaned maid hath full cause for her grief."
Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street,
He lifted the maiden, while in through the gate
The long line repasses, and many an eye
Pays fresh tribute of tea