rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day!

All the vaulted arches rang with music sweet and clear;
All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near;
And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin's head,
With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it--dead.

They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride;
Down the aisle and o'er the threshold they were carried, side by side;
While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before,
And then softly sank to silence--silence kept forevermore.

_Julia C. R. Dorr._

Our Folks

"Hi! Harry Holly! Halt; and tell
A fellow just a thing or two;
You've had a furlough, been to see
How all the folks in Jersey do.
It's months ago since I was there--
I, and a bullet from Fair Oaks.
When you were home, old comrade, say,
Did you see any of our folks?

"You did? Shake hands--Oh, ain't I glad!
For if I do look grim and rough,
I've got some feelin'--
People think
A soldier's heart is mighty tough;
But, Harry, when the bullets fly,
And hot saltpetre flames and smokes,
While whole battalions lie afield,
One's apt to think about his folks.

"And so you saw them--when? and where?
The old man--is he hearty yet?
And mother--does she fade at all?
Or does she seem to pine and fret
For me? And Sis?--has she grown tall?
And did you see her friend--you know--
That Annie Moss--
(How this pipe chokes!)
Where did you see her?--Tell: me, Hal,
A lot of news about our folks,

"You saw them in the church--you say,
It's likely, for they're always there.
Not Sunday? No? A funeral? Who?
Who, Harry? how you shake and stare!
All well, you say, and all were out.
What ails you, Hal? Is this a hoax?
Why don't you tell me like a man:
What is the matter with our folks?"

"I said all well, old comrade, true;
I say all well, for He knows best
Who takes the young ones in his arms,
Before the sun goes to the west.
The axe-man Death deals right and left,
And flowers fall as well as oaks;
And so--
Fair Annie blooms no more!
And that's the matter with your folks.

"See, this long curl was kept for you;
And this white blossom from her breast;
And here--your sister Bessie wrote
A letter telling all the rest.
Bear up, old friend."
Nobody speaks;
Only the old camp-raven croaks,
And soldiers whisper, "B