Hills rose and fell,-but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South,

The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,

Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.

The heart of the steed, and the heart of the master, Were beating, like prisoners assaulting their walls,

Impatient to be where the battle-field calls: Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,

With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet, the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,
And the landscape sped away behind,
Like an ocean flying before the wind:

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire;
But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire,

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the General saw were the groups
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops;
What was done,—what to do,—a glance told him
both.

And, striking his spurs with a terrible oath,

He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because

The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was

gray;

By the flash of his eye, and his nostril's play.
He seemed to the whole great army to say,
"I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester down, to save the day!"

Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan!

Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man!
And when their statues are placed on high,
Under the dome of the Union sky,
The American's soldier's Temple of Fame,-
There with the glorious General's name
Be it said in letters both bold and bright:
"Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester,-twenty miles away.

BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

On sunny slope and beechen swell
The shadowed light of evening fell;
And, where the maple's leaf was brown,
With soft and silent lapse came down
The glory that the wood receives,
As sunset, in its brazen leaves.

Far upward in the mellow light

Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white,
Around a far-uplifted cone,

In the warm blush of evening shone;
An image of the silver lakes

By which the Indian's soul awakes.

But soon a funeral hymn was heard
Where the soft breath of evening stirred
The tall, gray forest; and a band
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand,
Came winding down beside the wave,
To lay the red chief in his grave.

They sang, that by his native bowers
He stood, in the last moon of flowers,
And thirty snows had not yet shed
Their glory on the warrior's head;