1. WAR ECHOES.

YEAR eighteen-sixty, - ah, but then

We were a jolly set of men

As ever sat in Harvard Hall

And answered to the dull roll-call;

Or hurried through the snowy air

In coat and boots to morning prayer.

We Freshmen were, - that happy tribe

That furnish many a sneer and jibe,

For upper-classmen, who forget

That they were Freshmen once; and yet

Methinks that in those golden days

We minded not their lofty ways

And laughed at all attempts to haze.

We had a little coterie

Of steadfast friends, in number three.

Jack Linton came from New Orleans,

And oft rehearsed for us the scenes

' Mid which his boyish days had past, -

Scenes that were doomed no more to last.

A noble fellow, though, was Jack,

With shoulders broad and straight-built back,

And manly face and open eye,

The picture of sincerity!

The second of our little set,

Less powerful than Jack, was yet

Perhaps much more to be respected

For rare accomplishments of mind,

Which very few had e'en suspected,

In one so shy as he, to find.

But of our little coterie

He was the very life, and we

Predicted that Tom Percy's name

Would some day catch the breeze of fame.

As for myself, I had been bred

In Boston, - then the boasted head

Of literature, and not as now

An echo of its long ago.

Mayhap, like most Bostonians, I

Was overproud of ancestry,

And vaunted of my Pilgrim stock,

And looked as stiff as Plymouth Rock;

Howe'er that be, with Tom and Jack

I kept my haughty manners back.

Our time was mostly spent together,

In stormy as in pleasant weather,

Our rooms, our books, and every thing

We shared as proudly as a king.

Ah! many the pipes together smoked,

And many the autumn nights we joked,

And oft we passed the bottles green,

Till morning's light shot in between

The half-drawn curtains, trimmed with red,

And warned us then 'twas time for bed.

Many the midnight hours spent

In giving voice and fancy vent,

Entangling us in problems deep,

Whose answers only came - with sleep!

Religion, art, philosophy,

And half a score of "isms" we

Attacked with fresh, determined force

And never settled them - of course.

Vacation came, and Jack invited

Me to his Southern home; delighted

I answered 'yes;' forthwith we started

And ne'er were students lighter-hearted.

We left Tom headed for the West,

And journeyed on without a rest,

Filled with sweet dreams of expectation

Till we had reached our destination.

I'll not recount the sights and scenes,

The balls and calls, at New Orleans;

It was a spot where lingered yet

A truly hospitable set,

And he whose fortune led him there,

Then lacked nor friends nor friendly care.

Jack had a sister (well, I stop

A moment at the recollection

And brush away the tears that drop,

And bring me back a sad reflection).

She was not frail, but wondrous fair;

Her dark blue eyes and chestnut hair

Recalled some beauty of the past,

Some phantasy in day-dreams chased;

Her merry laugh and winsome grace

Gave double beauty to her face, -

She seemed to me a creature sent

Personifying merriment!

Alas! the time too quickly sped

And all too soon the month was ended;

The last good-by was sadly said,

And Jack and I to Harvard wended.

Spring came; the news of war went forth

Rousing to energy the North,

Startling in every town and farm

The volunteers to rise and arm.

Jack, when the first dread tidings came,

Went straightway home; Tom did the same.

I, of both comrades thus bereft,

My books and college duties left,

Enlisted in a regiment,

And shortly afterward was sent

Down to the seat of war, and then

I learned the art of killing men.

Three years dragged out their course in blood;

We bore the brunt of snow and flood,

Contesting nature and the foe, -

Hoping for some decisive blow.

One night on picket guard I stood,

Surrounded by a multitude

Of dead and dying soldiers. They

Were luckless wearers of the gray

Whom we had put to rout that day.

The moon shone brightly, and the air

Was still, save for some dying prayer

Or groan or curse; and even these

Grew fainter, fainter by degrees

As the poor vanquished sank to rest

Upon the battle-field's dank breast.

At length, quite near my post, I heard

A long-drawn sob, a whispered word!

A moment more, it came again;

I looked and listened; shortly then

I saw a woman's figure bending

Over a corse, her arms extending

To Heaven, as if in supplication;

Thence came that bitter lamentation.

I neared the spot; she strove to smother

A wail, and murmured low, "My brother!"

I saw there, by the moon's pale light,

The soldier's features, stiff and white;

I saw his uniform of gray,

His coat besmeared with blood and grime,

And recognized; as dead he lay,

My poor old Jack of other time!

Back rushed to me those college scenes, -

Those joyful days in New Orleans,

Those mutual ties, that sunny youth,

That friend, the very heart of truth,

From whom three years ago I parted

So full of life, so noble-hearted;

And there he lay, beyond life's laws,

The victim of a fallen cause!

That was his sister by the dead;

Alas! I know not what I said,

Or how her agony consoled;

My heart was softened, as of old,

And I could hardly bring relief

To one so stricken down with grief.

I hollowed with my sabre's blade

A shallow grave, and then I laid

Poor Jack in silence, to repose

Where he had bravely met his foes.

His sister watched me, weeping; when

I rose and turned to her again,

As mind-created, formless sprite

Vanisheth in the veil of night,

She too had fled, and never more

I saw Jack's sister Eleanor.