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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! Ha! 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. Deadl 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
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
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.
They seemed like the sombre spirits,
From some lost, forsaken clime, A caravan from the dusty realms
On the farther side of time. The lean and drooping horses,
The covered vans piled high, The sullen and cruel driver
With the lash, and curse, and cry; The dogs so hungry and savage,
And beside them on either hand, The swarthy, swaggering masters,
The lords of the Gypsy band. And the women! O, the women!
So haggard, and bent, and black, With the babe strapped across the bosom,
And the burden upon the back; And the pitiful little children,
With faces as old as sin,Ah! when did their childhood leave them,
And the burden of life begin ? And after the rest came trooping
Singly, in groups and pairs, The girls with the cymbals and tamborines,
The boys with the dancing bears; And the village rabble crowded
On the heels of this human woe,
To pay for the pitiful show.
Than the half-tamed beasts they led,
From my aching vision fled.
A blot on God's sweet sunlight;
A blackened, noisome stain;
And my heart grew sick with pain.
Of the child beside my knees, “ In His image and likeness He formed him," -
Could the legend mean aught to these? Was there somehow in God's wide mercy,
A special provision planned ?
A place for a Gypsy band ?
In her apron, clean and white,
As pure as Heaven's own light. But the tender eyes were clouded,
With an anxious, questioning air, “ O Mamma, are these God's children ?
Does our Father in Heaven care ? “ Can they never go to Heaven ?
It's only clean folks, you know, Can enter the shining city
In garments as white as snow! I'm so sorry, oh! so sorry
!" The great tears trembled and fell, And the child's heart broke with the pity,
Which the child's lips could not tell. O shame to my righteous doubting!
O shame to my narrow creed ! For “who hath made us to differ,"
For whom did the Lord Christ bleed ?