On Douglas Bridge we parted, but The Gap o' Dreams is never shut, To one whose saddled soul to-night Rides out with Count O'Hanlon.

THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND: PHILIP FRENEAU

In spite of all the learned have said, I still my old opinion keep; The posture that we give the dead Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands;-- The Indian, when from life released, Again is seated with his friends, And shares again the joyous feast.

His imaged birds and painted bowl, And venison, for a journey dressed, Bespeak the nature of the soul, Activity, that wants no rest.

His bow for action ready bent, And arrows with a head of stone, Can only mean that life is spent, And not the old ideas gone.

Thou, stranger that shalt come this way, No fraud upon the dead commit,-- Observe the swelling turf and say, They do not lie, but here they sit.

Here still a lofty rock remains, On which the curious eye may trace, (Now wasted half by wearing rains,) The fancies of a ruder race.

Here still an aged elm aspires, Beneath whose far projecting shade, (And which the shepherd still admires,) The children of the forest played.

There oft a restless Indian queen, (Pale Shebah with her braided hair,) And many a barbarous form is seen To chide the man that lingers there.

By midnight moons, o'er misting dews, In habit of the chase arrayed, The hunter still the deer pursues, The hunter and the deer--a shade!

And long shall timorous Fancy see The painted chief and pointed spear, The Reason's self shall bow the knee To shadows and delusions here.

"RANK ON RANK OF GHOSTLY SOLDIERS"

THE SONG OF SOLDIERS: WALTER DE LA MARE

As I sat musing by the frozen d.y.k.e, There was one man marching with a bright steel pike, Marching in the daylight, like a ghost came he, And behind me was the moaning and the murmur of the sea.

As I sat musing, 'twas not one but ten-- Rank on rank of ghostly soldiers marching o'er the fen, Marching in the misty air they showed in dreams to me, And behind me was the shouting and the shattering of the sea.

As I sat musing, 'twas a host in dark array, With their horses and their cannon wheeling onward to the fray, Moving like a shadow to the fate the brave must dree, And behind me roared the drums, rang the trumpets of the sea.

BY THE BLOCKHOUSE ON THE HILL: HELEN GRAY CONE

_A Ballad of Ninety-eight_

The soul of the fair young man sprang up From the earth where his body lay, And he was aware of a grim dark soul Companioning his way.

"Who are you, brother?" the fair soul said, "We wing together still!"

And the soul replied that was swart and red, "The spirit of him who shot you dead By the blockhouse on the hill.

"Your men and you on the crest were first, And the last foe left was I, In the crackle of rifles I dropped and cursed, Lightning-struck as the cheer outburst And the hot charge panted nigh.

"You saw me writhe at the side of the trench; You bade--I know not what; With one last gnash, with one last wrench, I sped my last, sure shot.

"The thing that lies on the sodden ground Like a wrack of the whirlwind's track, Your men have made of the body of me, But they could not call you back!

"In that black game I won, I won!

But had you worked your will, Speak now the shame that you would have done In the blockhouse under the hill!"

"G.o.d judge my men!" said the fair young soul, "He knows you tried them sore.

Had He given me power to bide an hour I had wrought that they forebore.

"I bade them, ere your bullet brought This swift, this sweet release, To bear your body out of the fire That you might rest in peace."

Said the grim dark soul, "Farewell, farewell, Farewell 'twixt you and me Till they set red Judas free from h.e.l.l To kneel at the Lord Christ's knee!"

"Not so, not so," said the fair young soul, "But reach me out your hand: We two will kneel at the Lord Christ's knee, And he that was hanged on the cruel tree Will remember and understand.

"We two will pray at the Lord Christ's knee That never on earth again The breath of the hot brute guns shall cloud The sight in the eyes of men!"

The clean stars came into the sky, The perfect night was still; Yet rose to heaven the old blood-cry From the blockhouse under the hill.

NIGHT AT GETTYSBURG: DON C. SEITZ

By day Golgotha sleeps, but when night comes The army rallies to the beating drums; Columns are formed and banners wave O'er armies summoned from the grave.

The wheat field waves with reddened grain And the wounded wail and writhe in pain.

The hard-held b.l.o.o.d.y Angle drips anew And Pickett charges with a ghostly crew,

While where the road to the village turns Stands the tall shadow of old John Burns!

THE RIDERS: KATHERINE TYNAN

Rheims is down in fire and smoke, The hour of G.o.d is at the stroke,

Round and round the ruined place,-- Jesus, Mary, give us grace!

There are two riders clad in mail Silver as the moon is pale.

One is tall as a knight's spear, The younger one is lowlier.

Small and slim and like a maid-- Steeds and riders cast no shade.

Who are then these cavaliers?

There was a sound as Heaven dropt tears.

Who are those who ride so light, Soundless in the flaming light,

Where Rheims burns, that was given By France to Mary, Queen of Heaven?