THE TEST.

  “Farewell awhile, my bonnie darling! 
    One long, close kiss, and I depart: 
  I hear the angry trumpet snarling,
    The drum-beat tingles at my heart.”

  Behind him, softest flutes were breathing
    Across the vale their sweet recall;
  Before him burst the battle, seething
    In flame beneath its thunder-pall.

  All sights and sounds to stay invited;
    The meadows tossed their foam of flowers;
  The lingering Day beheld, delighted,
    The dances of his amorous Hours.

  He paused:  again the fond temptation
    Assailed his heart, so firm before,
  And tender dreams, of Love’s creation,
    Persuaded from the peaceful shore.

  “But no!” he sternly cried; “I follow
    The trumpet, not the shepherd’s reed: 
  Let idlers pipe in pastoral hollow,—­
    Be mine the sword, and mine the deed!

  “Farewell to Love!” he murmured, sighing: 
    “Perchance I lose what most is dear;
  But better there, struck down and dying,
    Than be a man and wanton here!”

  He went where battle’s voice was loudest;
    He pressed where danger nearest came;
  His hand advanced, among the proudest,
    Their banner through the lines of flame.

  And there, when wearied Carnage faltered,
    He, foremost of the fallen, lay,
  While Night looked down with brow unaltered,
    And breathed the battle’s dust away.

  There lying, sore from wounds untended,
    A vision crossed the starry gleam: 
  The girl he loved beside him bended,
    And kissed him in his fever-dream.

  “Oh, love!” she cried, “you fled, to find me;
    I left with you the daisied vale;
  I turned from flutes that wailed behind me,
    To hear your trumpet’s distant hail.

  “Your tender vows, your peaceful kisses,
    They scarce outlived the moment’s breath;
  But now we clasp immortal blisses
    Of passion proved on brinks of Death!

  “No fate henceforward shall estrange her
    Who finds a heart more brave than fond;
  For Love, forsook this side of danger,
    Waits for the man who goes beyond!”

THE PREACHER’S TRIAL.

Sitting in my New-England study, as do so many of my tribe, to peruse the “Atlantic,” I wonder whether, like its namesake, hospitable to many persons and things, it will for once let me write as well as read, and launch from my own calling a theme on its bosom.  Our cloth has been worn so long in the world, I doubt how far it may suit with new fashions in fine company-parlors; but, seeing room is so cordially made for some of my brethren, as the Reverend Mr. Wilbur and “The Country Parson,” to keep up the dignity of the profession, I am emboldened to come for a day with what the editorial piety may accept, “rejected article” as it might be elsewhere.