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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

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 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. 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

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 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

the door,

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 ?

WE

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.

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,
Flinging their vagrant pennies

To pay for the pitiful show.
And they seemed to me all less human

Than the half-tamed beasts they led,
I was glad when the hateful pageant

From my aching vision fled.

A blot on God's sweet sunlight;

A blackened, noisome stain;
A reproach to the Infinite kindness,

And my heart grew sick with pain.
Then I thought of the Babe in the manger,

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 ?
Was there somewhere in God's great Heaven,

A place for a Gypsy band ?
Then I looked at my little daughter,

In her apron, clean and white,
With her soft brushed curls, and her forehead

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 ?

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