Let Freedom's Banner wave.

BY MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
TUNE, "America."

HERE, where our fathers came
Bearing the holy flame

To light our days;

Here, where with faith and prayer
They reared these walls in air,
Now to the heavens so fair
Their flag we raise.

Look ye, where free it waves
Over their hallowed graves,
Blessing their sleep!

Now pledge your heart and hand,
Sons of a noble land,

Round this bright flag to stand,
Till death to keep.

God of our fathers, now
To thee we raise our vow;
Judge and defend;

Let Freedom's banner wave
Till there be not a slave:
Show thyself strong to save
Unto the end.

Praise to the God of Harvest.

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY.

THE God of harvest praise;
In loud thanksgiving raise
Hand, heart, and voice.
The valleys smile and sing,
Forests and mountains ring,
The plains their tribute bring,
The streams rejoice.

Yea, bless his holy name,
And purest thanks proclaim,
Through all the earth.
To glory in your lot
Is duty; but be not
God's benefits forgot
Amidst your mirth.

The God of harvest praise;
Hands, hearts, and voices raise

With sweet accord;
From field to garner throng,
Bearing your sheaves along,
And in your harvest-song
Bless ye the Lord.

Praise in the Courts of the Lord.

PRAISE ye Jehovah's name;
Praise through his courts proclaim;
Rise and adore:

High o'er the heavens above
Sound his great acts of love,
While his rich grace we prove,
Vast as his power.

Now let the trumpet raise Triumphant sounds of praise, Wide as his fame;

There let the harp be found; Organs, with solemn sound, Roll your deep notes around, Filled with his name.

While his high praise ye sing,
Shake every sounding string:
Sweet the accord!

He vital breath bestows:
Let every breath that flows
His noblest fame disclose.
Praise ye the Lord.

"Doubt Not."

THE laws of Christian light,
These are our weapons bright,
Our mighty shield.
Christ is our leader high;
And the broad plains which lie
Beneath the blessed sky,
Our battle-field.

On, then, in God's great name!
Let each pure spirit's flame
Burn bright and clear.
Stand firmly in your lot;
Cry ye aloud, "Doubt not!"
Be every fear forgot:

Christ leads us here

So shall earth's distant lands In happy, holy bands

One brotherhoodTogether rise and sing, And joyful offerings bring, And heaven's Eternal King Pronounce it good.

The Heavenly Canaan.

1 There is a land of pure delight, Where saints immortal reign; Infinite day excludes the night, And pleasures banish pain.

2 There everlasting spring abides,

And never-withering flowers: Death, like a narrow sea, divides This heavenly land from ours.

3 Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood Stand dressed in living green;

So to the Jews old Canaan stood,
While Jordan rolled between.

4 Could we but climb where Moses stood
And view the landscape o'er, [flood,
Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold
Should fright us from the shore.

A Psalm of Freedom.

BY REV. EDMUND H. SEARS.

STILL Wave our streamer's glorious folds
O'er all the brave and true,
Tho' ten dim stars have turned to blood
On yonder field of blue.

It is our Nation's judgment-day
That makes her stars to fall;
And all the dead start from their graves
At Freedom's trumpet-call.

Lo! on the thunders of the storm

She rides, - an angel strong: "Now my swift day of reckoning comes; Now ends the slaver's wrong.

"Lift up your heads, ye faithful ones;
For now your prayers prevail:
Ye faithless, hear the tramp of Doom,
And dread the iron hail!

"God's last Messiah comes apace
In FREEDOM's awful name:
He parts the tribes to right and left, -
To glory or to shame."

Then wave the streamer's gallant folds
O'er all the brave and true,
Til all the stars shine out again
On yonder field of blue.

Song of the Stars and Stripes.

BY REV. E. H. SEARS.

WE see the gallant streamer yet
Float from the bastioned wall.
One hearty song for fatherland:

That banner shall not fall.
Last on our gaze, when outward bound
We plough the ocean's foam;
First on our longing eyes again

To waft our welcome home.

Beneath thy shade we've toiled in peace;
The golden corn we reap;
We've taken home our bonny brides;
We've rocked our babes to sleep;
We marched to front the battle-storms
That brought the invaders nigh,
When the grim lion cowered and sank
Beneath the eagle's eye.

Beneath the stars and stripes we'll keep,
Come years of weal or woe:
Close up, close up the broken line,
And strike the traitors low!

Ho, brothers of the "Border States"!
We reach across the line,

And pledge our faith and honor now
As once in Auld Lang Syne.

We'll keep the memories bright and green

Of all our old renown;

We'll strike the traitor hand that's raise
To pluck the eagle down:

Still shall it guard your Southern homes
From all the foes that come.
We'll move with you to harp and flute,
Or march to fife and drum.

Or if ye turn from us in scorn,
Still shall our nation's sign
Roll out again its streaming stars
On all the border line;

And, with the same old rallying-cry,
Beneath its folds we'll meet,
And they shall be our conquering sign,
Or be our winding-sheet!

Weep o'er the Heroes as they fall.

BY CHARLES WILLIAM BUTLER. WEEP o'er the heroes as they fall In conflict for the Right; And vow to Heaven our lives, our all, Shall give our country might. We will not let our banner fair

Be trailed by foes in dust; But it shall be our dearest care, The nation's hope and trust.

Weep o'er the heroes as they fall,
Who die in glory's prime;
Who give their nation's earnest call
A life and death sublime.
We call them dead; and yet their hearts
Throb on in Memory's shrine:
For them the patriot's noblest part
In Freedom's cause divine.

Weep o'er the heroes as they fall, -
O'er every soldier's tomb;
And by their dark, funereal pall,
Bid patriot life-buds bloom.
Write there anew man's love to man;
Smite there Oppression's rod;
And bid the traitor's eye to scan
The nation's trust in God.

BOSTON, MASS.

They are Marching On.

(Continued from opposite page.) From the granite hills, the seaside, In solid ranks like walls,A hundred men to take the place Of every man that falls.

Right on across the midnight,

Right onward, stern and proud; Their red flags shining as they come, Like morning on a cloud.

Battalion on battalion,

The West its bravery pours;
For the colors God's own hand has set,
In the bushes at their doors!

In the woods and in the clearings,
The lovers, brothers, sons,
The young men and the old men,
Are shouldering their guns.

They have heard the bugle blowing, -
Heard the thunder of the drum;
And, farther than the eye can see,
They come, and come, and come!

ALICE CARY.

Marching On.

I'm a soldier of the army, I'm a soldier of the army, I'm a soldier of the army, And we'll conquer every foe.

CHORUS.

Glory, Halle, Hallelujah!
Glory, Halle, Hallelujah!
Glory, Halle, Hallelujah!
And we are marching on.

We've a glorious Commander,
We've a glorious Commander,
We've a glorious Commander,
And we'll lay the rebels low.

He has never lost a battle,
He has never lost a battle,
He has never lost a battle:
Brave comrades, on we go.

Onward, onward then to glory!
Onward, onward then to glory!
Onward, onward then to glory!
We'll make the traitors bow.

The Massachusetts Line.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE NEW PRIEST."

AIR, "Yankee Doodle."

STILL first, as long and long ago,

Let Massachusetts muster: Give her the post right next the foc;

Be sure that you may trust her. She was the first to give her blood For freedom and for honor; She trod her soil to crimson mud: God's blessing be upon her!

She never faltered for the Right,
Nor ever will hereafter:

Fling up her name with all your might;
Shake roof-tree and shake rafter.
But of old deeds she need not brag,
How she broke sword and fetter:
Fling out again the old striped flag!
She'll do yet more and better.

In peace her sails fleck all the seas,
Her mills shake every river;
And where are scenes so fair as these

God and her true hands give her?
Her claim in war who seek to rob;
All others come in later:
Hers first it is to front the mob,
The tyrant, and the traitor.

God bless, God bless the glorious State!
Let her have way to battle!
She'll go where batteries crash with fate,
Or where thick rifles rattle.
Give her the Right, and let her try;

And then who can may press her:
She'll go straight on, or she will die.

God bless her, and God bless her!

DUANESBURGH, May 7, 1861.