Are her friends—friends? the cold scorn of her eye
Breaks like the flash o'er a storm-riven sky,
And her ashen lips cry, as she kneels o'er his sod,
"Where is earth's justice? Oh! is there a God?”

IX.

Ay, glance not behind at the pallid young face,
And yearning eyes raised to pierce the blue space
That curtains her God: her home, and his life-
Tho' but atoms borne on in the mass and the strife
Were bartered to make you a freeman; and now

Pass her by-there is gloom on her young bride-like brow.
Let her weep, let her starve, let her weary young life
Live out the decree of a patriot's wife.

X.

Pass her by tarry not to soothe the mad pain

That throbs at her heart, and burns in her brain.

Seek not to lift the dark pall of her woes;

How she toils, how she starves, how the day comes and goes. What has she now to do with the world-

A serf to the haughty, a slave to the churl?

Pass her by-shun the bride of the soldier, but save

All your smiles, all your honors to brighten his grave.

XI.

Oh! flowers, bright blooms, lift your beautiful heads,
And speak to the living in tones of the dead;
Tell them kind acts to their desolate love
Are graven on hearts that are watching above;

That a word to the weary, a mite to the poor,

May scatter the clouds, chase the "wolf from their door;"

That but for his country his ragged child now

Might smile in her beauty as radiant as thou.

XII.

But, alas! to the winds, as the favored of earth,

Tell the story of woe; what have they with the dearth

Of desolate homes? Ah! mourners, not here

Is the soldier's reward; hope, patience, and prayer
Are your respite from pain, till God in his love
Shall call you to join your brave martyrs above.
Until then, oh! remember the pride that yet waves
Its flower-starred flags o'er CONFEDERATE GRAVES.

MRS. MARY A. McCRIMMON.

MRS. MCCRIMMON has done much for Southern letters; has been

editress of several literary journals; in 1859, edited the "Children's Department," in the "Georgia Temperance Crusader," and during the war, edited an "Educational Monthly" at Lumpkin, Georgia, her then residence. She was also among the prominent contributors to the "Southern Illustrated News," her sketches and poems being much admired by the readers of that journal, which had an extensive circulation in camp as well as at the firesides of the readers of the "Southern Confederacy."

Since the close of the war, Mrs. McCrimmon, we are informed, has married a Mr. Dawson, and removed to Arkansas.

As one of the constant "workers in the mine of literature," we could not well omit the name of this lady, although obliged to furnish such an incomplete notice as this.

FLORIDA.

Land of beauty-blooming ever
In the golden summer sun;
Land of perfume-blighted never
By the borean blast; where one
Unfading, dreamy spring-time still
Lies like a veil on plain and hill.

Soft the shadows slowly creeping
Through thy dim and spectral pines;
Pure thy lakelets, calmly sleeping,
Save a few light, rippling lines,
When the white water-lilies move,
And fairies chant their early love.

Far in ether, stars above thee
Ever beam with purest light;

Birds of richest music love thee;

Flowers than Eden's hues more bright;
And love-young love, so fresh and fair,
Fills with his breath thy gentle air.

Oh, land of beauty - clime of flowers-
Scenes of precious memory!

Thine are the happy "by-gone hours"
Which made all of life to me;
When every moment was, in joy, an age-
A volume concentrated in a page.

But, land of beauty, blooming ever
'Neath the fairest summer-sky,
I may see thee more - ah! never--
Never hear thy soft wind's sigh;

Yet in my heart thou evermore must dwell;
Then land- dear land of beauty, fare thee well!

1860.

MRS. AGNES JEAN STIBBES.

UTH FAIRFAX, a favorite contributor of novelettes, poems, and sketches to Father Ryan's paper, the "Banner of the South," published in Augusta, is known by a few friends to be Mrs. Stibbes, at the present time residing in Savannah. Mrs. Stibbes was born in South Carolina. She commenced writing for publication when about sixteen years of age, and was married at seventeen years to a gentle

man of Georgia.

Until the late war, her life was one bright scene; but, in common with her Southern sisters, all of her property was swept away, her home desolated, and wanting the "necessaries of life," she wrote the first chapters of the "Earls of Sutherland" (afterward published in the "Banner of the South") to pass away in pleasant thoughts the hours that were otherwise so frightfully real. During the war, she contributed novelettes and sketches to the "Field and Fireside," under the nom de plume of "Emma Carra.”

REV. A. J. RYAN,

THE GOLDEN-TONGUED ORATOR.

yea,

I have seen him, the poet, priest, and scholar! I have seen himand not only sat with hundreds of others listening to the holy words of love that fell from his lips, not only made one of many to whom his words were addressed, but I have listened to words of kindness and admonition, addressed to me alone; and this is not all. I have clasped his hand, gazed into the unfathomable depths of those clear blue eyes, seeing there a blending of the tenderest pity and almost superhuman love with the shadow of a deep

sorrow.

The majesty of his holy office loses nought of its mysterious grandeur when explained by his lips. As he cries, "Ours is the royal priesthood!" behold that radiant smile! It illumines his pale face as does a sunbeam the pure and graceful lily, and the glorious thoughts, fresh from his soul, breathe sweet incense to our hearts! Would that mine were the privilege of daily

kneeling at his feet, and, while his hand rests on my bowed head, have him invoke God's blessing upon me.

I listened lingeringly to the last words that fell from his lips, treasuring them up in my heart, and then turned away, grieving that I could see him, hear him no longer; and yet I bore away with me, fresh from his lips, a fervent "God bless you!" that has hovered round me like a halo of glory, brightening my pathway through the weary world.

The earth has seemed greener, the sky bluer, the sun brighter since my interview with him; and still, in imagination, I can see his delicate pale face, the beautiful brown, waving hair, and glowing, soul-lit eyes eyes that look down into one's heart, seeking the real feelings of the soul-eyes that tell of holy thought, of tender love for all mankind—eyes that speak of a strong soul struggling with the frail tenement of clay, beating her wings, longing to be free!

I can even now see him before me, as he stood then, his hands clasped, his head thrown back, and a smile of rare beauty brightening his pure face as he exclaimed, with a ring of holy exultation in his voice; "And upon this rock will I build my Church, and the gates of hell shall never prevail against it."

This is no fancy-sketch, but a bright reality, and yet I have not done justice to him of whom I speak.