Page images

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."



MWAS the breaking of the tempest when rebellion

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

Union songs.

Every village had its drum-call, every home its stripes

and stars,

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

grew bold.

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

azure hue.

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

the strand.

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

army true!

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

cursed grave!

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

blown snow.

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

enkindled pyre,

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

a psalm.

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

the door,

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.




E sat by the open window,

My little Bessie and I-
As through the clean, wide village street

The Gypsy band went by.
Twas June, and the leaves were dancing,

And upon the golden air
The breath of the blowing roses

Went wandering every where.

The sunlight and the shadows

Floated lightly a-down the street,
When the Gypsy band went slowly by

With weary and lagging feet.

« PreviousContinue »