M1

GERTRUDE A. CANFIELD.

RS. GERTRUDE AUGUSTA CANFIELD is a native of Vicksburg, Miss. She was born in 1836, and on the second marriage of her mother, removed with her to the Parish of Rapides, La., where she has since resided. In 1859 she married, and her husband, the gallant Major Canfield, was killed in leading a desperate charge at the battle of Mansfield, April 8th, 1864. No man in Rapides was more universally liked and respected than Major Canfield, and the tribute of honor to his memory was general and spontaneous throughout the parish where he had resided and practised his profession—the law.

Few among our war-stricken people have suffered more deeply than Mrs. Canfield. The loss of husband and children, the utter destruction of all her property, the necessity of providing for the wants of a helpless family, would have utterly overwhelmed a woman of less energy than herself. To this last circumstance (the struggle for support) is owing, in a great measure, the shortness and infrequency of her published writings. The few which have appeared in the "Louisiana Democrat" and New Orleans "Crescent" are marked by a sentiment and sensibility of a true poetic order. They convey the idea of culture, and a fancy which only scatters these slight lyrics from an abundance which will yet mature a work of more depth and pretension.

But it is from Mrs. Canfield's unpublished writings that her friends draw the clearest prestige of her future literary success.

A novel yet in manuscript (the publication having been delayed for a time) is marked by a force, a pathos, and a purity which must give her a high place among Southern writers. It is a tale which none but a woman could have written, from the insight it gives into a woman's heart and hidden springs of action; but it is also filled with characters and details masculine in their grasp of thought and treatment. When "My Cousin Anne" is published, we feel confident that the author will receive her reward, in part at least. We add purity as the crowning grace, for among the sensational and decollété writings of the present day, her mode of creation comes to us as a new revelation.

Mrs. Canfield's lyrics are, many of them, spirited and good. They do not appear to be the result of deep thought and careful combination, but spontaneous outbursts which seek rhythmical cadences as the natural music of the song. What she has done already is nothing but an imperfect interpretation of powers, to which we look for more sustained effort and fuller work.

CONFEDERATE GRAVES.

Pause, careless stranger stop and turn aside;
The spot whereon thou standst is holy ground.
What though no monuments in sculptured pride
Mark where the many graves lie scattered round?
Yet pause, and bow thy head in reverence deep,
The place is sacred here the mighty sleep.

The long dank grass waves rustling in the wind,
The sere leaves' russet mantle veils each mound,
And trailing weeds, and the wild-brier vine,
Have round each headboard leafy chaplets bound;
While the low breeze's moaning murmur makes
The only sound that the sad silence breaks.

On all those graves there's not a single line

To tell fond friends "Here the loved dust reposes;"
In vain Affection seeks that spot to find,

Where trembling hands should strew memorial roses :
On all alike the long grass rustling waves,
All look alike, those crowded, nameless graves.

Here rest the heroes of a hundred fields,
Martyrs to Liberty's most sacred cause;
Patriots who deemed it privilege to yield

Their dearest life-blood for their land and laws.
Our dead! they sleep in this neglected spot,
As though the land they died for loved them not.

But 'tis not so;

shrined in our hearts they lie,
Holiest of holies!-and their memories green,
Deep hidden in our breasts from every eye,
Immortelles of the soul, shall bloom unseen.
Here rest our dead—our precious hero-band,
In the fond hearts of their own native land.

Nor here alone,- the wide earth owns their fame;
In storied climes far o'er the distant sea,
Where'er is cherished Liberty's dear name,

Shall they, her peerless champions, honored be.
There rest our dead, embalmed in song and story,
And every name wreathed round with deathless glory.

No tyrant's flat can that record tear,

No rude hand cast those sacred tablets down;
Our foes, triumphant though they be, must bear
To hear the peans of that loud renown

That sweeps in sounding surge o'er land and wave,
And sighs its dirge o'er each Confederate grave.

THREE LOVES.

My childhood's love was calm and light,
A sweet and pure and sunny vision,
Shining in colors mildly bright,

Tinting my youth with hues Elysian;
And though the world in cold derision
At childhood's passing passion sneers,
Few feelings are where the division
"Twixt earth and heaven so faint appears
As ere the first love-dreams depart
From childhood's unpolluted heart.

Again I loved—my girlhood's dream
Had more of passion's depth and power,
But joyous as the wintry stream

Just freed by Spring's first sunny hour:
It passed- and for its bitter dower
Left anguished heart and aching brain:
Alas! that such a lovely flower
Could bear such poison-fruit!—but pain
Did even like joy at length depart,
And cool indifference healed my heart.

My womanhood was calmly cold;

The flame that had so fiercely burned

Was quench'd, and from its fiery fold

My heart shrank quivering, tortured, spurned;

And vainly deeming it had learned
Sorrow's best lesson- "Trust no more."
In vain though hope, to ashes turned,
Like apples on the Dead Sea shore

Had mocked my lips, my soul still yearned
For love, though wisdom's dear-bought lore
Told me sweet peace must soon depart,
Should love re-enter my dead heart.

Despite experience' warning wise,

Again I love!-the heart I thought
Was dead to passion's burning sighs,

Thrills to thy touch with passion fraught;
Lives in the light of thy dear eyes,
Deprived of thee, its life, it dies.

As twilight to the deep midnight,
As star-rays to the lightning's glare,
As zephyrs to the tempest's might,
My former loves to this compare:
And should its cherished dreams depart,
In voiceless anguish break, my heart!

OUR DEAD.

Our dead! what tongue can tell their matchless story?
What pen relate their high heroic deeds?

What pencil paint the halo of their glory?

What heart that does not for their sufferings bleed? The long Confederate Roll of Honor! every name Shrined in the sanctuary of the nation's heart, Wreathed round with laurel-leaves of deathless fame, Shall never from our memories depart.

The war is over-Peace, benign and sweet,

Brings back the festive gathering to each hall

Whence mirth and the blithe sound of dancing feet
Had long been gone:- what though we have not all
Our loved ones with us -some are left to meet

With song and jest around the glowing hearth:

Choke back the tears which yonder vacant seat

Calls blinding to the eye:-give our dead rest, O Earth!

Ay, give them rest from where Potomac's waves
Sound an eternal anthem of repose,

To where the Shenandoah's countless graves
Proclaim their well-earned vengeance on our foes.
Where rolls the Mississippi's mighty stream,
Where Tennesseean mountains pierce the sky,
There rest they in one long, unbroken dream,
Tombed in the land for which they loved to die.

"Forget them, and be gay!" In vain! in vain!

False is the smile that masks the brow of care, False is the laugh that mocks the heart's sore pain, False as our peace-like Dead-Sea apples, fair And tempting to the view, but ashes to the taste The Peace of Desolation!-the red simoom's sweep Blasting the green earth to a desert waste.

Force smiles to your pale lips, all ye who weep, Bid every sound of lamentation cease,

Welcome the dreary void and call it - Peace!

Peace let it be- at least the war is over;
No more the cannon's sullen roar is heard,
No more the husband, father, brother, lover

Press the last kiss, gasp out the parting word.
Homeward each gallant soldier hath returned,
The war-worn veterans bearing noble scars;
Joy to the aching hearts that long have yearned
To greet their dear ones coming from the wars.
Can we rejoice? Our country! see her stand
The Niobe of nations! see her brow,
So lately regal with its high command,

Discrowned, degraded, 'neath her anguish bow.
In Ramah there is lamentation - Rachel weeps
For all her countless children who are not;
O'er all our land there's not a wild wave sweeps
But wails its requiem round some lonely spot
Where rest our dead-buried, but unforgot.

Pause for a while, my Muse, and fondly turn,
In Memory's sad and silent worship, where
Nor storied column nor sepulchral urn

Blazon such deeds as only heroes dare.
Bravest and best! o'er thy red grave was heard
No dirge save the dark pine's perpetual sigh;