When on the fervid air there came
    A strain—­now rich, now tender;
  The music seemed itself aflame
    With day’s departing splendor.

  A Federal band, which, eve and morn,
    Played measures brave and nimble,
  Had just struck up, with flute and horn
    And lively clash of cymbal.

  Down flocked the soldiers to the banks,
    Till, margined by its pebbles,
  One wooded shore was blue with “Yanks,”
    And one was gray with “Rebels.”

  Then all was still, and then the band,
    With movements light and tricksy,
  Made stream and forest, hill and strand,
    Reverberate with “Dixie.”

  The conscious stream with burnished glow
    Went proudly o’er its pebbles,
  But thrilled throughout its deepest flow
    With yelling of the Rebels.

  Again a pause, and then again
    The trumpets pealed sonorous,
  And “Yankee Doodle” was the strain
    To which the shore gave chorus.

  The laughing ripple shoreward flew,
    To kiss the shining pebbles;
  Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue
    Defiance to the Rebels.

  And yet once more the bugle sang
    Above the stormy riot;
  No shout upon the evening rang—­
    There reigned a holy quiet.

  The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood
    Poured o’er the glistening pebbles;
  All silent now the Yankees stood,
    And silent stood the Rebels.

  No unresponsive soul had heard
    That plaintive note’s appealing,
  So deeply “Home, Sweet Home” had stirred
    The hidden fount of feeling.

  Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees,
    As by the wand of fairy,
  The cottage ’neath the live-oak trees,
    The cabin by the prairie.

  Or cold, or warm, his native skies,
    Bend in their beauty o’er him;
  Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,
    His loved ones stand before him.

  As fades the iris after rain
    In April’s tearful weather,
  The vision vanished, as the strain
    And daylight died together.

  But memory, waked by music’s art,
    Expressed in simplest numbers,
  Subdued the sternest Yankee’s heart,
    Made light the Rebel’s slumbers.

  And fair the form of Music shines,
    That bright celestial creature. 
  Who still, ’mid war’s embattled lines,
    Gave this one touch of Nature.

JOHN RANDOLPH THOMPSON.

* * * * *

UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES.

[The last words of Stonewall Jackson[A] were:  “Let us cross the river and rest under the shade of the trees.”]

[Footnote A:  Major-General Thomas J. Jackson, C.S.A., killed on a reconnoissance, May 10, 1863.]

  What are the thoughts that are stirring his breast? 
    What is the mystical vision he sees? 
  —­“Let us pass over the river, and rest
    Under the shade of the trees.”