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after the preacher had ceased speaking, when he suddenly dropped into the chair from utter exhaustion.
"An' now,” said the pastor, “when de choir hab stopped cryin', dey will sing a hymn, an' we'll put in all de pennies we's got inter de box, and de white folks will put in de silber, for de relief ob Aunt Rachel."
DR. JAMES M. LUDLOW.
broke the law, And the fearless-hearted Lincoln raised the flaming
sword of war; When our poets sang of freedom, and from all our
Northern homes Marched the volunteers to battle, to the sound of Union
drums. From Vermont, from Massachusetts, came they forth,
with brows of light, And from every State that gloried in the Union and
the right, Till the wondering hills re-echoed to the march of armed
throngs, And the babe was rocked to slumber to the sound of
Every village had its drum-call, every home its stripes
Every city rang with echoes of its people's loud hurrahs, And the Northern maiden, sewing, to her country's
honor true Hummed her stirring “Hail Columbia" as she drew
her needle through.
Pennsylvania's hills were blooming; summer breezes
kissed the rills, But still thicker than the flowers stood the white tents
on the hills. Far toward Chambersburg and Carlisle, by the army
guarded vales, Wound the canvas-covered wagons through the daisy
whitened dales, And the polished, brazen cannon in the noontide gleamed
like gold; All was stir and preparation and the hearts of men
Here was Meade, and there was Reynolds; here was
Howard, bold and grave, Here was Sedgwick, Hancock, Slocum; there was Sick.
les, firm and brave; And the country's flag waved o'er them, with its red
and white and blue, Like alternate stripes of sunrise set with noontide's
Seel the flaming battle opens ! All forgot is Sinai's
law And the gleaming of the bayonet is the lighting flash
of war. All the morn is wild with music of the shrieking fife
and drum, And the sound of hosts advancing where the rushing
squadrons come. See! Kilpatrick's troops are sweeping down the hillside
to the creek, Clouds of smoke enfold the valley and the hoarse
mouthed cannon speak.
Brightly gleams the clashing saber, wild the hiss of
leaden rain, Loud the deep artillery thunder by the hill and o'er the
plain. Glory! glory to the Union! How the blue lines, swell
ing grand, Surge and beat upon the gray coats, like the ocean on
General Reynolds, he has fallen! Dash away the bitter
tear! 'Tis a noble thing to die, boys, for a cause so grand, so
dear. Hear the clanging chains of thraldom! Strike! oh,
strike, my comrades brave, 'Tis for Right you fight, and Honor! Strike! and free
the bleeding slave! Hal the banner shaft is shattered, and the bearer, brave,
shot through Save it! wave it, boys,-the banner that can keep an
General Howard's flaming cannon flash their death-light
on the plain, And the Thirteenth and the Sixteenth pour their volley
like a rain. Cheer boys! cheer! the foe is wavering! Never mind
the shot and shell, Rally, boys! when Right is sovereign, Glory leads her
armies well. On, Vermont! On, Massachusetts ! Every State on!
firm and brave ! On! and plant the flag of Freedom on Oppression's
And the brave troops of the Union, like one man, close
on the foe, Till the foemen's ranks are scattered like a drift wind
Three dark days are filled with fighting. On the third,
the sunset fire Comes to light the earth and purge it with its heav'n
On the field the dead are lying with their faces to the sky, Dead! away from home and kindred. Dead! and who
hath seen them die? Not a tender voice to bless them in that stormy close of
life, But the smoke of war about them, and the deafening
roar of strife. Yet the tender peace of evening, like the Christ upon
sea, Now hath come to still the tempest of their stormy
Galilee. O'er the raging waves of battle hath it brought this
wondrous calm, And the day that man made hideous, Nature closes with
Round their snow-white tents, at twilight, lie the battle
weary men; Lee is conquered,—battle over, and sweet rest has come
again. And they dream of home and kindred, of the little
cottage, poor, With the morning-glories nodding in the sunshine, by
And the mother, kneeling gently, with her face up
turned in prayer, And the blind old house dog whining for his master, on
the stair. Then the view grows dim and misty, and the cheek with
tears is wet, For the soul may brave an army, but it cannot brave
regret. Years have fled. The war is over.
North and South have taken hands ; One sweet country,--one proud nation, and no slave in
all the lands; But the names of patriot soldiers, who went down to
death sublime, Pour an everlasting lustre down the long arcades of time.
ERNEST W. SAURTLEFF.
ARE THESE GOD'S CHILDREN ?
E sat by the open window,
My little Bessie and I-
The Gypsy band went by.
And upon the golden air
Went wandering every where.
The sunlight and the shadows
Floated lightly a-down the street,
With weary and lagging feet.