A SOLDIER'S VALENTINE.     

      Just from the sentry's tramp        (I must take it again at ten), I have laid my musket down, And seized instead my pen; For, pacing my lonely round In the chilly twilight gray, The thought, dear Mary, came, That this is St. Valentine's Day. And with the thought there came A glimpse of the happy time When a school-boy's first attempt I sent you, in borrowed rhyme, On a gilt-edged sheet, embossed With many a quaint design, And signed, in school-boy hand,        "Your loving Valentine."       The years have come and gone,—        Have flown, I know not where,—      And the school-boy's merry face Is grave with manhood's care; But the heart of the man still beats At the well-remembered name, And on this St. Valentine's Day His choice is still the same. There was a time—ah, well! Think not that I repine When I dreamed this happy day Would smile on you as mine; But I heard my country's call; I knew her need was sore. Thank God, no selfish thought Withheld me from the war. But when the dear old flag Shall float in its ancient pride, When the twain shall be made one, And feuds no more divide,—      I will lay my musket down, My martial garb resign, And turn my joyous feet Toward home and Valentine. 

  

       LAST WORDS.     

      "DEAR Charlie," breathed a soldier,        "O comrade true and tried, Who in the heat of battle Pressed closely to my side; I feel that I am stricken, My life is ebbing fast; I fain would have you with me, Dear Charlie, till the last.       "It seems so sudden, Charlie, To think to-morrow's sun Will look upon me lifeless, And I not twenty-one! I little dreamed this morning, Twould bring my last campaign; God's ways are not as our ways, And I will not complain.       "There's one at home, dear Charlie, Will mourn for me when dead, Whose heart—it is a mother's—        Can scarce be comforted. You'll write and tell her, Charlie, With my dear love, that I Fought bravely as a soldier should, And died as he should die.       "And you will tell her, Charlie, She must not grieve too much, Our country claims our young lives, For she has need of such. And where is he would falter, Or turn ignobly back, When Duty's voice cries 'Forward,'        And Honor lights 

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