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."

TWAS

DR. JAMES M. LUDLOW.

GETTYSBURG.

WAS 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.

1

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 daisywhitened 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 Sickles, 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.

See! 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, swelling 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!

Ha! 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 windblown 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

the 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 battleweary 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,

Ε

And the mother, kneeling gently, with her face upturned 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 ERNEST W. SHURTLEFF.

time.

ARE THESE GOD'S CHILDREN?

E sat by the open window,

WE

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.