* *

IN THE BATTLE.

The drums are beat, the trumpets blow,
The black-mouthed cannon bay the foe,
Dark bristling o'er each murky height,
And all the field is whirled in fight.

The long life in the drowsy tent
Fades from me like a vision spent;--
I stand upon the battle's marge,
And watch the smoking squadron's charge.

Behold one starry banner reel
With that wild shock of steel on steel;
And ringing up by rock and tree
At last the cry that summons me.

I hear it in my vibrant soul,
Deep thundering back its counter roll;
And all life's ore seems newly wrought
In the white furnace of my thought.

No dream that made my days divine
But flashes back some mystic sign;
And every shape that erst was bright
Sweeps by me garmented in light.

High legends of immortal praise,
Brows of world heroes bound with bays,
The crowned majesties of Time
Rise visioned on my soul sublime.

Dear living lips of love and prayer
Come chanting through the blackened air;
And eyes look out of marble tombs,
And hands are waved from churchyard glooms.

"Charge! charge!" at last the captain's cry!
We pant, we speed, we leap, we fly;
I feel my lifting feet aspire,
As I were born of wind and fire!

On! on! where wild the battle swims,
On! on! no shade my vision dims;
Transcendent o'er yon smoky wreath,
I see the glory of great Death!

Come flashing blade, and hissing ball!
I give my blood, my breath, my all,
So that on yonder rocking height
The stars and stripes may wave to-night!

* * * * *

Our Art writer is awakened. Listen to him.

DEAR CONTINENTAL: You were kind enough to inform me that you would be
much obliged if I would let you know if there was anything stirring in
the world of Art.

The last thing which stirred in my world--I mean in my workshop in the
Studio Building--was a German of the carpenter persuasion. At least he
had a side pocket, and folding two-feet rule, with a shaving on his left
curl.

'Bees you a poor-trait bainter?' he inquired.

'Truly I am!' I replied.

'I wants you to baint de likeness to my fader.'

'With pleasure. Bring him here.'

'Yas--see now, dat is not bossiple. He lies geburied in the purying
crount in Stuttgart in Shermany.'

'Well, have you a photograph of him?'

'_Nichtss_ photograb.'

'Or a bust?'

_Nichts_ pus