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Strew those dear graves thickly over,
Every sacred earth-mound cover,
Son and brother, friend and lover,
Sleeping there.

Matrons! maids! the South's chaste daughters,
Bring to all our sainted martyrs

Offerings rare,

The very fairest flowers that bloom,

To deck each hallowed soldier's tomb!

Violet, rose, and morning-glory,
Though they say, "Memento mori,"
Also tell the pleasing story

Of the time to come:

Where no clamor rude of battle,
Sabre's clash and cannon's rattle,
Sound of fife or drum,
Shall disturb the quiet air
All is peace and beauty there!

Bring your laurels, lilies, roses,
Bind them into sweetest posies,
Strew them where in death reposes
The dear, precious dust

Of our braves, the true and knightly:
O'er each hallowed grave tread lightly;
'Tis a sacred trust

Thus to scatter flowers above
Lowly graves of those we love!

* April 26th.

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"We will make our escape to the library, Henry, or to my sanctum, which is more retired. I have a sketch which I wish you to criticise, or at least to review. You know I am no ambitious candidate for literary honors; but when I publish an article, even if the world should never know its authorship, I like it to be polished carefully, and I write in too great haste always.”

They repaired to the cosey little room Irene termed her "sanctum," and were soon busily engaged in looking over her manuscript.

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"Why do you not desire fame, Irene? The fruit which so many covet is within your grasp. With care and cultivation -no genius can excel without these — you might become one of the finest writers of light literature of the age."

"You think so, Henry?'

"Most certainly I do. You have always underrated your own powers. Your portfolio abounds with gems of poesy, which equal anything ever written by my favorite, Mrs. Browning. Why, Irene, had you the ambition, you could write a name on the annals of your country's fame that would never die. Child! child! you do not know yourself. You have a versatility of talent I have never seen surpassed! but you write a great deal better than you talk. I have often wondered at that. I have seen you appear confused and embarrassed when some question was discussed, and in half an hour you would go to your own room and write out your opinions so clearly and sen


sibly on a subject of which you had seemed ignorant, that you astonished Understand me, you are always a brilliant conversationist when interested; you never make idle, unmeaning remarks, and at all times converse better than any woman of my acquaintance. In fact, there is an indescribable charm about all that you utter; you invest ordinary topics with interest, and clothe the meanest objects in your beautiful garments of poesy, until they seem wholly to have changed their nature. But your writing is superior to your conversation; you seem to think more clearly and beautifully when the pen is between your fingers, and there is a boldness and originality about your style very refreshing in this age of imitation."

"I cannot accuse you of flattery, for I know that you are sincere in all you say; but you judge me with the partial eye of affection. Do not be a syren, luring me on to my own destruction. Suppose that I become so inflated with vanity as to enter the lists with more experienced writers. Fancy me with heart and soul engaged in the task-risking my all on the throw of a single die; - then imagine me defeated in the contest. What will be my fate, when, like a disappointed gamester, ruin stares me in the face? Oh! Henry, I am proud, very proud. If I should write for fame, and the critics should assail me, I would die, like the sensitive Keats, when the rude breath of unappreciation swept over him.”

"You are mistaken, Irene; you do not know your own nature. There is something within you that would rise superior to all this. You would feel that you deserved success; and-"

"Rank myself among the great unappreciated!" laughed Irene.

Unfortunately for Henry's argument, he had not read an article from the pen of a late writer, stating that those whom the world refuses to acknowledge are generally appreciated as much as they deserve to be. He subscribed to the now evidently exploded fallacy that geniuses have lived and died in unmerited obscurity.

"At any rate, criticism would never kill you, Irene; you could not be crushed to the earth; the very pride you speak of would sustain you. Is a flower the less sweet because the rude boor tramples it under foot? Would your poems be the less meritorious because some critic saw no beauty-in them? You are not vain, and only vanity shrinks from a little wholesome criticism. Genius is willing to have its faults pointed out, and to amend them. You were not vexed just now when I made a wholesale erasure in one of your essays. You only looked over it carefully, reasoned with me a while, read it again, and said frankly, 'You are right, and I accept the amendment.' Vanity would not have said that, or at least not sincerely, because vanity would have considered the article perfect at first. I did not see one look of wounded pride on your face; if you felt, you did not betray it; and oh! Irene, that telltale face of yours!"

He smiled fondly on her, and possessed himself of the tiny hand resting near his on the paper.

"Fame cannot bring happiness to woman, my dear friend. Dost remember what Mrs. Hemans says?

"Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame!
A draught that mantles high,

And seems to lift this earthly frame

Above mortality.

Away!-to me- a woman - bring
Sweet waters from affection's spring.'

And again, the last verse of the same poem :

"Fame! fame! thou canst not be the stay
Unto the drooping reed,

The cool, fresh fountain in the day

Of the soul's feverish need.

Where must the lone one turn or flee?
Not unto thee, oh! not to thee.'

And Mrs. Norton-gifted daughter of poetry and passion, whose heart was almost breaking with the weight of its own sweet song—says, in her 'Picture of Sappho':

"Fame to thy breaking heart

No comfort could impart;

In vain thy brow the laurel wreath was wearing;

One grief, and one alone,

Could bow thy bright head down

Thou wert a woman, and wert left despairing."

You select such sad quotations, that one would fancy you subscribed to the common belief that fame and happiness cannot dwell together."

"I do believe it."

"And are not alone. Is it not Mrs. Hemans, who, in describing an impassioned woman of genius, bids her not hope for blessedness on earth, and adds:

"For unto thee earth's gift is - Fame."

"Yes; and in another place she says:

"Tell me no more, no more

Of my soul's lofty gifts! Are they not vain
To quench its haunting thirst for happiness?
Have I not loved and striven, and failed to bind
One true heart unto me, whereon my own
Might find a resting-place, a home for all
Its burden of affection. I depart

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