_
Long, long I muse, then on my way go wandering,
Many a changeful season to follow, and many a scene of life,
Yet at times through changeful season and scene, abrupt, alone, or in
the crowded street,
Comes before me the unknown soldier's grave, comes the inscription
rude in Virginia's woods,
_Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade._
NOT THE PILOT.
Not the pilot has charged himself to bring his ship into port,
though beaten back and many times baffled;
Not the pathfinder penetrating inland weary and long,
By deserts parch'd, snows chill'd, rivers wet, perseveres till he
reaches his destination,
More than I have charged myself, heeded or unheeded, to compose a
march for these States,
For a battle-call, rousing to arms if need be, years, centuries
hence.
YEAR THAT TREMBLED AND REEL'D BENEATH ME.
Year that trembled and reel'd beneath me!
Your summer wind was warm enough, yet the air I breathed froze me,
A thick gloom fell through the sunshine and darken'd me,
Must I change my triumphant songs? said I to myself,
Must I indeed learn to chant the cold dirges of the baffled?
And sullen hymns of defeat?
THE WOUND-DRESSER.
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