less chargers toss their bridle-reins?
When down the lines gleam points of polished steel,
And phantom columns flood the sun-lit plains?

A breathless hush! A shout that mounts on high
Till every hoary hill from sleep awakes!
Swift as the unleashed lightning cleaves the sky,
The tumbling, tempest-rush of battle breaks!
The smoke-wreathed cannon launch their hell-winged shells!
The rattling crash of musketry's sharp sound
Sinks in the deafening din of hoarse, wild yells
And squadrons charging o'er the trampled ground!

Down, down they rush! The cursing riders reel
'Neath tearing shot and savage bayonet-thrust;
A plunging charger stamps with iron heel
His dying master in the battle's dust.
The shrill-tongued notes of victory awake!
The black guns thunder back the shout amain!
In crimson-crested waves the columns break,
Like shattered foam, across the shell-swept plain.

A still form lies upon the death-crowned hill,
With sightless eyes, gray lips that may not speak.
His dead hand holds his shot-torn banner still--
Its proud folds pressed against his bloodstained cheek.

O slumbering heroes, cease to dream of war!
Let hatreds die behind the tread of years.
Forget the past, like some long-vanished scar
Whose smart is healed in drops of falling tears.
Keep, keep your glory; but forget the strife!
Roll up your battle-flags so stained and torn!
Teach, teach our hearts, that still dream on in life,
To let the dead past sleep with those we mourn!

From pitying Heaven a pitying angel came.
Smiling, she bade the tongues of conflict cease.
Her wide wings fanned away the smoke and flame,
Hushed the red battle's roar. God called her Peace.
From land and sea she swept mad passion's glow;
Yet left a laurel for the hero's fame.
She whispered hope to hearts in grief bowed low,
And taught our lips, in love, to shape her name.

She sheathed the dripping sword; her soft hands pres't
Grim foes apart, who scowled in anger deep.
She laid two grand old standards down to rest,
And on her breast rocked weary War to sleep.
Peace spreads her pinions wide from South to North;
Dead enmity within the grave is laid.
The church towers ring their holy anthems forth,
To hush the thunders of the cannonade.

EDWARD PEPLE.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Littlest Rebel, by Edward Pep