T'hree Dollars, a Xepr.
POETS QQI0
T- e Twe Armies..
st 0. W. woLXaES.
As lifa'* l olttml, pos. a
' ao h hosts age aqea
a t me pled shores
© 9 iem' tba fdrwB-baest's roll. ]
The wide-np l laritt'e bray,
And beare asn a crimson scroll,
"Ot ýA+ery is to slay."
One ait ai ,.t) ream
;& rftupt ~sabers shins,
No bloo4 gqed petuons wave'
1ts bagr bears the sin le line, C
"* Oor dn is to save.'
-'si theseap death bed's lingering shade;
At floapr's trumpet call.
With knitted brow and lifted blade,
In glory's arms they fall.
'or these no flashing falchions bright,
No stirring battle cry;
The bloodless stabber calls by might
Each answers, "lere am 1!"
For these the eculpto;'s laureled bunt,
The builder's marble piles,
The anthems pealing o'er their dast,
Through long cathedral aisles.
For these the blossom-sprinkled turf,
That floods the lonely graves,
When spring rolls in her sea-green surf
In flowery foaming waves.
Two pathsa lead upward from below,
And angels wait above,
Who count each burning life-drop's flow,
Each falling tear of Love.
Thgh frts Ieero's, bleeding breast
Her pulse's lenm drew,
Though the white lilies i} her crest
Sprang from that scarlot dew
While Valor's haughty champions wait
Till all their scars are shown.
Drove walk-suc I ahieugedtluhouglh the gate
To sit beside the thirone !
Deacon Adams' Cup.
BY FRANK CUlVE.
