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THE SOLDIERS' JOURNAL,
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THE COVERED BRIDGE.
BY DAVID BARKER.
Tell the fainting soul in Ihe weary form
There's a world of the purest bliss,
That is linked—as that soul and form are linked—
By a covered bridge, with this.
Yet to reach that realm on the other shore
We must pass through a transient gloom
And must walk unseen, un helped and alone
Through that covered bridge—the tomb.
But we all pass over on equal terms,
For the universal toll
Is the outer garb, which the hand of God
Has flung around the soul.
Though the eye is dim, and tho bridge is dark.
And th I river it bpfens is wide,
Yet Faith points through to a shining mount
That looms 011 the other side.
To enable our feet in the next day's march
To climb up that g >lden ridge,
We must all lie down for one night's rest,
Inside of the covered bridge.
THE BRAVE AT HOME.
BY BUCHANAN REED.
The maid who binds her warrior's sash,
With smiles that well her pain dissembles.
The while benea'h her drooping lash
One starry teardrop hangs and trembles.
Though Heaven alone records toe tear,
And fame shall never know her story,
Her heart has shod a drop as dear
As ever dewed tlie field of glory.
The wife who girds her husband's sword,
'Mid little ones who weep or wonder
And bravely speaks the cheering word.
What though her heart be rent asunder-
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear
The bolts of war around him rattle,
Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er
Was poured upon the plain ot battle !
The mother who conceals her grief,
While to her breast her son she presses,
Then breathes a few brave words and brief,
Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,
With no one but her secret God,
To know the pain that weighs upon her,
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sood
Received on Freedom's field of honor!
—_ si 1 ■
A CONSTANT SOLDIER.
Ay, still he loves
The lioned-tressed Bell ona, like a bridej
Wooes her with blows; and when his limbs all sweat
With struggling through the iron ranks of war,
Down doth he tumble on the tired ground, ,
Wipes his red forehead: cries, " How brave is this!'
And" dreams all night of
From Ballou's Dollar Monthly.
BY ETTA WESTON.
[CONCLUDED FROM LAST WEEK.]
He knew she had never loved, for with all the
keenness of his artist vision, ho had read in the
calm depths of her beautiful eyes no trace of
passion so prone to speak from brow and lip.—
Her face had been his study. Not a change in
its expression but had graven itself upon his
memory. Thus passed a twolvo-month, and in ■
the elegant habitue of the public Gallery of B—
Street, none would dream of the haggard, wist
ful lace of just one year before. Mingling easily |
among the crowd, he had gradually como to bo
regarded as a irue lover of art. and his just, yet
unobtrusive criticism, evincing a highly culti
vated taste, had won for him too the reputation
of a connoisseur. It would be strange if so
striking a face and figure should fall unnoticed
on tho eye of Edith Graham, bm by a singular
perversity of either chance or purpose on Bis
part, they had never met, though many a glance
of either approval of herownsuggestive thoughts
«.rn questioning look of her beautiful face at
some original criticism of his own, told there j
was a recognition of mutual tastes and appreci- |
ation, without the formal words of introduction.
More than a year subsequent to the opening of
our story tho devotees of art were warmed to
the height of enthusiasm and curiosity, by tht?
appearance in the favorite gallery of a striking
and beautiful painting. It was not the mere
depths of its exqusito coloring, or the delicate
outline and grouping of the figures, but the moral
of the picture, the deep and fearful allegory that
seemed looking out from its every light and
shadow, arrested tho eye of every truly appre
ciative taste, as much as its singularity of title,
and the wonderful portraiture of its principal
figure. On a narrow but seething stream, whose
waters were ragged with flecks of foam and boil
ing whirlpools, rushing madly over quicksands
and between gaping rocks, yet at times swaying
with a sleepy and stagnant flow amid rank tmd
noisome weeds, but whose current at last leaped
with a quick mad rush of blackness and dark
ness into a very pit of gloom. At the verge lay
a frail and shattered boat, its carved and gilded
sides were broken and stained, its rudder gone,
oarless and without a sail. Before it and hover- I
ing over tho cataract that impelled it on from out
the clouds and darkness, looked the hideous
phantoms of suicide, remorse and dt.spair. On
the shores of either side were figures calmly
watching the terror-stricken voyager in the
wrecked and shattered bark, some coolly calcu
lating with a practiced eye tho distance between
him and destruction; some with their rich robes
drawn carefully back from the brink, lest the j
foul spray might begrim their garments ; some
with the hateful laugh of derision; none to help
|m mi mat group: none save one. on the far-
I thest point of land that stretched forward, even
to the edge of the precipice, stood a beautiful fe
inaio crowned with the asphodel, while tho puri
ty of her robe in contrast with the black clouds
and blacker water, rendered her face as the face
of an angel. While with one hand she pointed
upward to tho halo of light that encircled her
alone, with the other she bad cast her mantle of
tho rainbow hue of hope forward over the flood,
still holding it firmly, while the frightened voy
ager grasped its shining folds, as she drew the
frail bark backward from the horrid verge.
It needed no second glance to tell the friends
and admirers of Edith Graham, that tho face of
this beautiful figure was a just and perfect re
production of her own. But whence camo it—
where was the likeness obtained—who was tho
artist? But no solution camo to the wondering
questioner. As Edith Graham stood before the
picture, thus beholding herself transfigured to
a more than human helper, what strange surmi
ses passed through her throbbing brain. How
her heart leaped forward in longing for the re
cognition of that other soul, thus sounding the
interior depths of hor own. More eagerly than
lor any uihar vftina, did aha watch for the words
of Philip Reide, for whom she had long learned
to look in their favorite haunt, not known to her
as simply Mr. Reide, yet approved and admired
by her sincere soul above all others, though he
evidently avoided speaking, while he ever ling
ered in her presence. Standing in a group of
those whose tastes and judgment bad long learned
to conform to his, he surveyed the painting calm
ly, and with apparently all lack of enthusiasm,
and turned away, carelessly remarking on its
artistic execution, or some equally trifling point.
Edith Graham was bitterly disappointed. She
had looked to him for a response to her own
strange conflict of surprise and indignation, and
it was cruel thus to turn from it with so cold a
word. Littlo did she dream of the boating heart
and the lip that dared not breathe, lest its quiv
ering muscles should tell the story that his hand
had wrought, and his whole soul had gono out in
its beautiful creation. Tho picture was not for
sale, and after a time was withdrawn from the
saloon, quietly and mysteriously to the curious
ones. A few mouths later and Philip Reide had
opened an artist's studio in E— Street, much to
the surprise of his friends and acquaintances,
who had never dreamed of him as an artist.—
But tho beauty of his productions and the ex
quisite coloring of his pictures, had already call
ed to his room tlio lovers of all that is beautiful
aud true in art, for his were ever those holier
creations, which In their ideal loveliness never
fail to recognize the Author of all beauty. Most
especially had he attracted by his successes in
portraiture Edith Graham, and pleading with
hor own heart that this was her strongest in*