Six thousand years of commune, God with man,--
Two thousand years of Ohrist; yet from such roots,
Immortal, earth reaps only bitterest fruits!
The fiends rage now as when they first began!
Hate, Lust, Greed, Vanity, triumphant still,
Yell, shout, exult, and lord o'er human will!
The sun moves back! The fond convictions felt,
That, in the progress of the race, we stood,
Two thousand years of height above the flood
Before the day's experience sink and melt,
As frost beneath the fire! and what remains
Of all our grand ideals and great gains,
With Goth, Hun, Vandal, warring in their pride,
While the meek Christ is hourly crucified!

Pax.

"Stonewall" Jackson's Way.

These verses, according to the newspaper account, may have been found in the bosom of a dead rebel, after one of Jackson's battles in the Shenandoah valley; but we are pleased to state that the author of them is a still living rebel, and able to write even better things.

Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails;
Stir up the camp-fire bright;
No matter if the canteen fails,
We'll make a roaring night.
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
Here burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
To swell the brigade's rousing song,
Of "Stonewall Jackson's way."

We see him now--the old slouched hat
Cocked o'er his eye askew--
The shrewd dry smile--the speech so pat,
So calm, so blunt, so true.
The "Blue Light Elder" knows 'em well:
Says he, "That's Banks; he's fond of shell.
Lord save his soul! we'll give him ----" well
That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."

Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps off!
Old "Blue Light's" going to pray.
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!
Attention! it's his way!
Appealing from his native sod
In forma pauperis to God,
"Lay bare thine arm! Stretch forth thy rod!
Amen!" That's Stonewall's way.

He's in the saddle now: Fall in!
Steady! The whole brigade!
Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win
His way out, ball and blade.
What matter if our shoes are worn?
What matter if our feet are torn?
Quick step! we're with him before dawn!
That's Stonewall Jackson's way!

The sun's bright lances rout the mists
Of morning--and, by George!
Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge.
Pope and his Yankees, whipped before:
"Bayonets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar;
"Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score,
In Stonewall Jackson's way!"

Ah, maiden! wait, and watch, and yearn,
For news of Stonewall's band!
Ah, widow! read--with eyes that burn,
That ring upon thy hand!
Ah! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on:
Thy life shall not be all forlorn.
The foe had better ne'er been born,
That gets in Stonewall's way.

The Silent March.

On one occasion during the war in Virginia, General Lee was lying asleep by the wayside, when an army of fifteen thousand men passed by with hushed voices and footsteps, lest they should disturb his slumbers.

O'ercome with weariness and care,
The war-worn veteran lay
On the green turf of his native land,
And slumbered by the way;
The breeze that sighed across his brow,
And smoothed its deepened lines,
Fresh from his own loved mountain bore
The murmur of their pines;
And the glad sound of waters,
The blue rejoicing streams,
Whose sweet familiar tones were blent
With the music of his dreams:
They brought no sound of battle's din,
Shrill fife or clarion,
But only tenderest memories
Of his own fair Arlington.
While thus the chieftain slumbered,
Forgetful of his care,
The hollow tramp of thousands
Came sounding through the air.
With ringing spur and sabre,
And trampling feet they come,
Gay plume and rustling banner,
And fife, and trump, and drum;
But soon the foremost column
Sees where, beneath the shade,
In slumber, calm as childhood,
Their wearied chief is laid;
And down the line a murmur
From lip to lip there ran,
Until the stilly whisper
Had spread to rear from van;
And o'er the host a silence
As deep and sudden fell,
As though some mighty wizard
Had hushed them with a spell;
And every sound was muffled,
And every soldier's tread
Fell lightly as a mother's
'Round her baby's cradle-bed;
And rank, and file, and column,
So softly by they swept,
It seemed a ghostly army
Had passed him as he slept;
But mightier than enchantment
Was that with magic move--
The spell that hushed their voices--
Deep reverence and love.

Pro Memoria.