THOMAS. BUCHANAN READ.

Born in Pennsylvania 1822-died 1872.

THE WINDY NIGHT.

ALOW and aloof,

Over the roof,

How the midnight tempests howl!
With a dreary voice, like the dismal tune
Of wolves that bay at the desert moon;
Or whistle and shriek
Through limbs that creak.
"Tu-who! tu-whit!"

They cry, and flit,

"Tu-whit! tu-who!" like the solemn owl!

Alow and aloof,
Over the roof,

Sweep the moaning winds amain,
And wildly dash

The elm and ash,

Clattering on the window sash,

With a clatter and patter

Like hail and rain,

That well-nigh shatter

The dusky pane!

Alow and aloof,

Over the roof,

How the tempests swell and roar!

Though no foot is astir,
Though the cat and the cur

Lie dozing along the kitchen floor,

There are feet of air

On every stair-—

Through every hall!

Through each gusty door

There's a jostle and bustle,

With a silken rustle,

Like the meeting of guests at a festival!

Alow and aloof,

Over the roof,

How the stormy tempests swell!

And make the vane

On the spire complain;

They heave at the steeple with might and main, And burst and sweep

Into the belfry, on the bell!

They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well,
That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep,
And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell!

THE DESERTED FARM.

THE elms were old, and gnarl'd, and bent;
The fields, untill'd, were choked with weeds,
Where, every year, the thistles sent

Wider and wider their winged seeds.

Farther and farther the nettle and dock
Went colonizing over the plain,-
Growing, each season, a plenteous stock
Of burrs to protect their wild domain.

The last who ever had plough'd the soil
Now in the furrow'd churchyard lay;
The boy who whistled to lighten his toil
Was a sexton somewhere far away.

Instead, you saw how the rabbit and mole
Burrow'd and furrow'd with never a fear;
How the tunnelling fox look'd out of his hole,
Like one who notes if the skies are clear.

No mower was there to startle the birds

With the noisy whet of his reeking scythe;
The quail, like a cow-boy calling his herds,
Whistled to tell that his heart was blithe.

Now all was bequeath'd with pious care-
The groves and fields fenced round with briars-

To the birds that sing in the cloisters of air,
And the squirrels, those merry woodland friars.

AUTUMN'S SIGHING.

AUTUMN'S sighing,
Moaning, dying;
Clouds are flying

On like steeds;
While their shadows
O'er the meadows
Walk like widows

Deck'd in weeds.

Red leaves trailing,
Fall unfailing,
Dropping, sailing,
From the wood,

That, unpliant,

Stands defiant,
Like a giant
Dropping blood.

Winds are swelling
Round our dwelling,
All day telling

Us their woe;
And at vesper
Frosts grow crisper,
As they whisper

Of the snow.

From the unseen land

Frozen inland,

Down from Greenland

Winter glides,

Shedding lightness
Like the brightness

When moon-whiteness

Fills the tides.

Now bright Pleasure's
Sparkling measures
With rare treasures
Overflow!

With this gladness
Comes what sadness!
Oh, what madness!
Oh, what woe!

Even merit
May inherit

Some bare garret,
Or the ground;
Or, a worse ill,
Beg a morsel

At some door sill,

Like a hound!

Storms are trailing ;
Winds are wailing,
Howling, railing
At each door.
'Midst this trailing,
Howling, railing,
List the wailing
Of the poor!

GEORGE H. BOKER.

Born at Philadelphia 1823—

THE BLACK REGIMENT. (Port Hudson, May 27, 1863.) DARK as the clouds of even, Rank'd in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dread mass and drifts Tempest and falling brand, Over a ruin'd land,So still and orderly,

Arm to arm, knee to knee,

Waiting the great event,
Stands the black regiment.

Down the long dusky line
Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine;
And the bright bayonet,
Bristling and firmly set,
Flash'd with a purpose grand,
Long ere the sharp command
Of the fierce rolling drum
Told them their time had come,-
Told them what work was sent
For the black regiment.

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Now!" the flag-sergeant cried,"Though death and hell betide, Let the whole nation see

If we are fit to be

Free in this land; or bound
Down, like the whining hound,—
Bound with red stripes of pain
In our old chains again!"
O, what a shout there went
From the black regiment!

"Charge!" Trump and drum awoke,

Onward the bondmen broke ;

Bayonet and sabre-stroke

Vainly opposed their rush.

Through the wild battle's crush,
With but one thought aflush,
Driving their lords like chaff,
In the guns' mouths they laugh;
Or at the slippery brands
Leaping with open hands,
Down they tear man and horse,
Down in their awful course;
Trampling with bloody heel
Over the crashing steel;
All their eyes forward bent,
Rush'd the black regiment.