18;30-40.] JAMES H. PERKINS. 159 And the dews weep her, night by night. And still at morn our peasants say, As darkness melteth into day, Unearthly music floats away Above this lonely spot : And still our village maidens tell. How sometimes, at the vesper bell, A form — they know not what — Comes dimly on the breathless air. Betwixt them and the western sky, And awes them — 'tis so strange, so fair- Till mingling with the colors there, The scarce-seen features die. It may be only fancy's hand That paints it ; or it may be fear ; Or it may be the spirit bland Of her that slumbers here. But, ah ! we never more shall see. By homely hearth, or woodland tree. Another maiden such as she. THE YOUNG SOLDIER. Oh ! was ye ne'er a school-boy ? And did you never train, And feel that swelling of the heart You cannot feel again ? Didst never meet, far down the street, With plumes and banners gay, While the kettle, for the kettle-drum Played your march, march away ? It seems to me but yesterday, Nor scarce so long ago. Since we shouldered our muskets To charge the fearful foe. Our muskets were of cedar wood, With ramrod bright and new ; With bayonet forever set, And painted barrel too. We charged upon a flock of geese. And put them all to flight. Except one sturdy gander That thought to show us fight : But, ah ! we knew a thing or two; Our captain wheeled the van — We routed him, we scouted him. Nor lost a single man. Our captain was as brave a lad As e'er commission bore ; AH brightly shone his good tin sword. And a paper cap he wore ; He led us up the hill-side. Against the western wind. While the cockerel plume, that decked his head. Streamed bravely out behind. We shouldered arms, we carried arms. We charged the bayonet ; And woe unto the mullen stalk That in our course we met. At two o'clock the roll was called, And till the close of day. With our brave and plumed captain We fought the mimic fray, — When the supper-bell, we knew so well. Came stealing up from out the dell. For our march, march away. POVERTY AND KNOWLEDGE. Ah ! dearest, we are young and strong, With ready heart and ready will To tread the world's bright paths along ; But poverty is sti'onger still. Yet, my dear wife, there is a might That may bid poverty defiance, — The might of knowledge ; from this night Let us on her put our reliance. Armed with her scepter, to an hour We may condense whole years and ages; Bid the departed, by her power, Arise, and talk with seers and sages.
