ust once more,'
cries Charlie, and falls before us. But listen; above the battle din
comes a new, an approaching sound from the eastward.

Along the yellow road pours swiftly a force of cavalry, behind the
rumble of cannon almost flying over the ground, and high in air, reeling
from the swift motion of its bearer's steed, the banner of the free. We
are saved! A wild shout rings along our lines. Among the enemy,
frightened consultation followed by flight; another second, and our
friends are with us and beyond us in hot pursuit.

Brief question and answer told us of the friendly warning in the distant
camp, the hasty march to aid us. The rest we saw. Then, 'A surgeon for
Major Fanning.' The man of the green sash had not grown callous. There
were tears in his eyes as he rose from his vain endeavors, saying only:

'I can do nothing here; I am needed elsewhere.'

Our young hero was dead!

They composed his limbs, laying him on a blanket under the trees, and
Grace sat down beside him, tearless still, but pale as her dress, or the
white hand lying cold over the soldier's pulseless heart.

'Robert, send them away,' she said to me, as sympathizing strangers
pressed round; and they left us alone with the dead. I spoke at last the
commonplaces of consolation, suggested and modified by the hour and my
soldier feelings.

'Yes, Robert,' she answered, 'I gave him long ago. GOD will comfort me
for my hero--in time. Do not speak to me just yet. Do not let any one
come.'

The tears came now, and she wept bitterly, silently, under the starry
banner, beside the dead. I heard the hum of many voices, and now and
then a cry of pain, and knew they were all helping the sufferers. Then I
turned to her again. Her streaming hair swept the ground, golden in the
light. Her fair face was hidden on the cold dead face. And I dared not
speak to her. Oh, that picture! Poor Grace Fanning! and the silver,
silver moonlight over all.

POETRY AND POETICAL SELECTIONS.

'Oh, deem not in this world of strife,
An idle art the Poet brings;
Let high Philosophy control,
And sages calm the stream of life;
'Tis he refines its fountain springs,
The nobler passions of the soul.'

In the annals of literature, Poetry antedates Prose. Creation precedes
Providence, not merely in the order of sequence, but what is usually
called intellectual and physical grandeur. So in genius and taste,
Poetry transcends prose. In the work of