THOMPSON was born in Richmond, Virginia, and died in New York city. After being graduated from the University of Virginia, he studied law and made his home in Richmond. He soon turned aside from the law, however, and became editor of the Southern Literary Messenger, which Poe had edited several years earlier. Under his editorship this journal was successful. In 1863 he went abroad in search of health. While in London he wrote much for the newspapers. On his return to

America, he became the skillful literary editor of the New York Evening Post, under the management of William Cullen Bryant. He held this position until his health failed. He is buried in Hollywood Cemetery, Richmond. His verse has never been collected, and most of it has been obscured by the lapse of time.

MUSIC IN CAMP

Two armies covered hill and plain,
Where Rappahannock's waters
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain
Of battle's recent slaughters.

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents

In meads of heavenly azure;

And each dread gun of the elements

Slept in its hid embrasure.

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The breeze so softly blew it made

No forest leaf to quiver,

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And the smoke of the random cannonade
Rolled slowly from the river.

And now, where circling hills looked down
With cannon grimly planted,

O'er listless camp and silent town

The golden sunset slanted.

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 movement 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

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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 bugles 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,

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So deeply" Home, Sweet Home" had stirred
The hidden founts of feeling.

DR. TICKNOR practiced medicine in Georgia, where he was born and where he died. His leisure was spent in cultivating roses and in writing verses. He is best remembered by his war poems. A volume of his verse was collected and edited by Paul Hamilton Hayne.