The wall of living hearts,

Of noble, loving hearts,

At whose name the tear-drop starts: They have breathed sweet Freedom's air They are strong to will and dare— They are strong to do and bear!

The cannon-thunders roar,

The myriads on her pour:

Through the smoke and din of war,

She arises still serene;

And the sun, with golden beam,

Pours molten glory o'er

Scarred front and trampled shore

On the bloody, turbid tide,

Where blackened corpses ride,
Where dismantled vessels rest,
With white dead upon their breast,
On their gory, shattered breast.

She was shielded from their ire
With a wall of living fire-
By the just and righteous God,
Who stretched out his mighty rod
On the foeman in the field
The blasted, crimsoned field,
And o'er her holds his shield:
He will battle with the Right,
And protect her with His might:
He will triumph o'er the foe,
Lay her pride and beauty low:
Chant ye her requiem slow
A requiem sad and slow;

For a nation shall expire,
By Jehovah's holy ire,

While ascendeth higher, higher,

The anthem that will be

Of a new-born nation free!

When to the Past's deep urn,

Ye for her treasures turn,
Tell ye in words that burn,
To the children at the knee,
As ye talk of Liberty,

How Vicksburg rose in light,
'Mid the fearful stormy night
That blood-stained, bitter night,
And withstood the foe in might.

Let her name be wreathed with flowers,
In your halls and festive bowers,

Be struck from golden lyre,
Gleam 'mid the Poet's fire,
On our Southern breezes float,
To the nations far remote,
With the jasmine's odors borne
On the pure white wings of morn,
Of the blushing, gold-haired morn;
Till they weave her name in song,
With the ancient cities strong,
That withstood the ancient wrong;
Till a gem gleams forth her name
In the flaming crown of Fame,
Of burning, blazing Fame.

LINES SUGGESTED BY A CAPE JASMINE.

A soft perfume hangs heavy on the air;

Its sweet nepenthe calms the soul's fierce pain, And from life's fever-thirst and fret doth bear, And soothes me as my mother's breast again.

Away in distance far dies war's fierce tone,

While open wide the forest's winding ways, Within whose cool, green depths are heard alone The murmuring leaves and golden-winged fays:

Thy gleaming leaves recall the brook's bright sheen,
Wherein again my childhood's feet I lave;
Where golden-hearted lilies whitely gleam,
And willows bend to kiss the rippling wave.

Still heavier grows the air with perfume sweet,
As o'er my brow steal unseen cooling hands:
My soul goes forth strange visitors to greet,

And seems to commune with immortal bands.

Bright forms of dream-like beauty round me glide;
In language wild awakes the sluggish mind;
Sweet sounds that in celestial realms abide,
Sweep by upon the unbound western wind.

Now burning thoughts, uprising, seem to swell
My tongue to utterance, like Sibyl old:
Alas! the faltering accents break the spell,

And leave their weird-like beauty all untold.

Why sweep these visions bright across my soul,
Evoking thence a wild Æolian strain?
Why do its yearnings vain spurn mind's control,
And thought's intensity bring thrilling pain?

Thy calm white petals to my gaze unfold,

And bid my heart to learn in silence meek They say, "The beautiful sweet converse hold, To rouse the soul the beautiful to seek."

They bid me clothe my soul in spotless white,
With Mary, wisdom seek at Jesus' feet:
White robes alone are glorious in His sight,
The "pure in heart" for His dear presence meet.

And, gazing on thy glossy, deep dark green,
The Tree of Life before my vision glides,

And waters still, reflecting heaven's sheen,

And white-robed throng that on its shore abides.

The crimson passion-flower* my life has wound,
Its buds hang heavy with the dews of night:

My Father, let my dying brow be crowned

With Hope's bright buds, and Faith's large lilies white.

RESIGNATION.

Be patient, O my soul! yield not a sound
Of murmuring 'neath the chastening rod,
Although Hell's fiercest hosts encamp around:
Rest thou in fullest Hope and Strength in God;

*Emblem of suffering.

Though as the Son of Morning Satan lures,

Or with temptations fierce thy strength assays,—
Though Sorrow's cloud thy heavenly light obscures,
And Spirit-wrestlings mar thy glorious days,—
Be patient, for the joyous, glowing morn

In radiant beauty breaks o'er darkest night.
Lo! from thy darkness glorious Hope is born,
That gilds the floating clouds with glory bright:
From the dull worm, encased in silken shroud,
Is born triumphant beauty; and the germ
Within the shell deep-folded, tells aloud

Of life upspringing from the grave's cold urn.
As night brings forth the day; decay, bright life,—
So love is born of sorrow; joy, of pain;
And holiness, of suffering stern, and strife;
And purity, from fiercest furnace-flame.

Be patient, Soul! for Faith's full-moon will rise,
And o'er thy dark, long night its brightness pour,
And spirits' eyes as stars gleam from the skies:
But if thou faint, grief veils their beauty o'er.
Who perfumed isles would reach, or wealth would gain
From India's clime, the surging wave must stem;
The purest pearls lie deepest in the main,

And from dark mines is dug the glorious gem;
From mental strife is born that burning thought,
That sends through centuries its glowing light;
The soul's fierce throes with richer boon are fraught,
And blood-washed are those robes with glory bright.
Be patient, then, for from the furnace-glow

And anvil-beating stroke spring Love and Might: Thou yet serenest peace and joy wilt know,

The palm victorious wave 'mid hosts of light.

MRS.

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.