ut off stragglers,
encountered patrols of the foe, and arrested his supplies on the way to
the garrison. Sometimes the single scout, buried in the thick tops of the
tree, looked down upon the march of his legions, or hung, perched over the
hostile encampment, till it slept; then slipping down, stole through the
silent host, carrying off a drowsy sentinel, or a favorite charger, upon
which the daring spy flourished conspicuous among his less fortunate
companions.

NOTES.--The outlaw of Sherwood Forest was Robin Hood.

Roderick Dhu is a character in Sir Walter Scott's poem, "The Lady of the
Lake," from which the quotation is taken.

CXXXVI. A COMMON THOUGHT. (456)

Henry Timrod, 1829-1867, was born at Charleston, South Carolina. He
inherited his father's literary taste and ability, and had the advantages
of a liberal education. He entered the University of Georgia before he was
seventeen years of age, and while there commenced his career as a poet.
Poverty and ill health compelled him to leave the university without
taking a degree; he then commenced the study of law, and for ten years
taught in various private families. At the outbreak of the war, in 1860,
he warmly espoused the Southern cause, and wrote many stirring war lyrics.
In 1863 he joined the Army of the West, as correspondent of the Charleston
"Mercury," and in 1864 he became editor of the "South Carolinian,"
published first at Columbia and later at Charleston. He also served for a
time as assistant secretary to Governor Orr. The advance of Sherman's army
reduced him to poverty, and he was compelled to the greatest drudgery in
order to earn a bare living. His health soon broke down, and he died of
hemorrhage of the lungs. The following little poem seems, almost, to have
been written under a presentiment, so accurately does it describe the
closing incidents of the poet's life.

The first volume of Timrod's poems appeared in 1860. A later edition, with
a memoir of the author, was published in New York in 1873.
###

Somewhere on this earthly planet
In the dust of flowers that be,
In the dewdrop, in the sunshine,
Sleeps a solemn day for me.

At this wakeful hour of midnight
I behold it dawn in mist,
And I hear a sound of sobbing
Through the darkness,--Hist! oh, hist!

In a dim and musky chamber,
I am breathing life away;
Some one draws a curtain softly,
And I watch the broadening day.

As it purples in the zenith,
As it brighten