Above Oppression's broken ranks,
And withers o'er her children's graves;
And loud and long the pealing song
Of Jubilee is borne along.

'Tis evening, and December's sun
Goes swiftly down behind the wave,
And there I see a gray-haired one,
A special courier to the grave;
He looks around on vale and mound,
Then falls upon his battle-ground.

Beneath him rests the hallow'd earth,
Now changed like him, and still and cold;
The blood that gave young freedom birth
No longer warms the warrior old;
He waves his hand with stern command,
Then dies, the last of Glory's band.


"A very good song, but a very mournful subject," observed Kinnison. "And
now, friends, we'll part."

"The carriages are at the door," said one of the young men, as the party
arose and prepared to descend. The kindest and best wishes were
exchanged between the old and young men; and over and over again were
promises made to meet the next year, if possible. At length, the
veterans were assisted to descend the stairs. When they reached the
door, they found a crowd collected round it. The sound of the fife and
drum had drawn these people there, and hearing that the survivors of the