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When on the fervent air there came
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, A strain, now rich, now tender;
His loved ones stand before him.
As fades the iris after rain,
In April's tearful weather, A Federal band, which eve and morn
Tke Vision vanished, as the strain
And daylight died together.
But memory, waked by music's art,
Expressed in simplest numbers,
Made light the Rebel's slumbers.
And fairthe form of Musicshines,
That bright celestial creature,
Gave this one touch of nature.
John RANDOLPH THOMPSON. Reverberate with “ Dixie."
E were not many, we who stood
Before the iron storm that day, With yelling of the Rebels.
Yet many a gallant spirit would
Give half his years if but he could
Have been with us at Montereya
Now here, now there, the shot, it hailed To which the shores gave ciiorus.
In deadly drifts of fiery spray;
Yet not a single soldier quailed The laughing ripple shoreward flew
When wounded comrades round them wailed To kiss the shining pebbles ;
And on, still on, our column kept
Through walls of fireits Witheringway And yet once more the bugle sang
Where fell the dead, the living stepped, Above the stormy riot ;
Still charging on the guns that swept No shout upon the evening rang;
The slippery streets of Monterey. There reigned a holy quiet.
The foe himself recoiled aghast, The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood
When, striking where he strongest lay, Poured o'er the glistening pebbles ;
We swooped his flanking batteries past, All silent now the Yankees stood,
And, braving full the murderous blast, All silent stood the Rebels.
Stormed home the towers of Monterey. No unresponsive soul had heard
Our banners on those turrets wave, That plaintive note's appealing,
And there our evening bugles play ; So deeply “ Home, Sweet Home ” had stirred Where orange boughs above their grave The hidden founts of feeling.
Keep green the memory of the brave
Who fought and fell at Monterey.
We are not many, wewho pressed
Beside the bravewq fell that day, The cabin on the prairie.
But who of us has not confessed
He'd rather share their warrior rest Or cold or warm, his native skies
Thannot have been at Monterey? Bend in their beauty o'er him;
CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.
FROM "THE SWORD OF CASTRUCCIO CASTRUCANI."
grant me this
me this this is
Then te king exclaimed, “This is for me
And le dashed ait his sword on the hilt,
And dis heert overbooked' til it spelt
as there wilt?
- this is for o ricca Emmanuel the king,
The sword be for thee, and the deed, And naght for lite alin, retspring
höright for Hapshung in Pailotégreeds with a derro to head us.. our
great Italy freed
King Elizabeth Berretti Pianxing,
ARLINGTON. UJHE broken column, reared in air,
The combat o'er, the death-hug done, To him who made our country great, In summer's blaze, or winter's snows, Can almost cast its shadow where
They keep the truce at Arlington.
And almost lost in myriad graves
Of those who gained the unequal fight, Which comes for all, and soon or late
Are mounds that hide Confederate braves, Will come for those at Arlington.
Who reck not how the north wind raves,
O'er those who lost and those who won, In that vast sepulchre repose
Death holds no parley which was rightThe thousands reaped from every fray;
Jehovah judges Arlington.
The dead had rest; the dove had peace
To both had come that great surcease,
To bugle deaf, and signal gun,
Beneath the glebe at Arlington.
Her song-birds wove their dainty bowers
Waifs of the air and liberal sun,
To friend and foe at Arlington.
And in the spring's benignant reign,
The sweet May woke her harp of pines,
Denying largess bright to none;
That told who slept at Arlington.
And 'mid the generous spring there came
Some women of the land who strove
Unmindful who had lost or won,
IJAMES RYDER RANDALL.
She gave her grasses and her showers
To all alike who dreamed in dust;
bow in silence, and meet the fate that awaits me without a murmur; but the sen-
try of that law, labor, in its own vindication, to consign my character to obloquy; for there must be guilt somewhere: whether in the sentence of the court, or in the catastrophe, posterity must determine. The man dies, but bis memory lives. That inine may not perish, that it may live in the respect of my countrymen, I seize upon this opportunity to vindicate myself from some of the charges against me.
Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonor; let no man attaint my memory by believing that I could have engaged in any cause but that of my country's liberty and independence, or that I could have become the pliant minion of power in the oppression or the miseries of my countrymen. I would not have submitted to a foreign oppressor, for the same reason that I would resist the domestic tyrant; in the dignity of freedom I would have fought upon the threshold of my country, and her enemies should enter only by passing over my lifeless corpse. Am I, who lived but for my country, and who have subjected myself to the vengeance of the jealous and wrathful oppressor, and to the bondage of the grave, only to give my countrymen their rights, and my country her independence, am I to be loaded with calumny, and not to be suffered to resent or repel it? No! God forbid!
Be ye patient; I have but a few words more to say. I am going to my silent grave; my lamp of life is nearly extinguished; my race is run; the grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom. I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world: it is the charity of its silence. Let no man write my epitaph; for as no one who knows my motives dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times and other men can do justice to my character. When my country shall take her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written. I have done.
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the ser(From " Alice of Monmouth.'')
pent with his heel,
Since God is marching on. UR good steeds snuff the evening air,
Our pulses with their purpose tingle; He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall The foeman's fires are twinkling there;
never call retreat ; He leaps to hear our sabers jingle.
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his HALT!
judgment-seat; Each carbine sends its whizzing ball!
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him; be Now cling! clang! forward all,
jubilant, my feet! Into the fight!
Our God is marching on. Dash on beneath the smoking dome:
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born Through level lightnings gallop nearer!
across the sea, One look to Heaven! No thoughts of home: With a glory in his bosom that transfigures The guidons that we bear are dearer.
you and me;
As he died to make men holy, let us die to CHARGE!
make men free, Cling! clang ! forward all!
While God is marching on.
MRS. JULIA WARD HOW E.
They flee before our fierce attack!
They fall! they spread in broken surges.
Home, and good-night!
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
BATTLE-HYMN OF THE
M here the record in the glory of the com
ing of Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the
grapes of wrath are stored ; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his ter
rible swift sword;
His truth is marching on.
I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hun
dred circling camps ; They have builded him an altar in the even
ing dews and damps; I can read his righteous sentence by the dim
and flaring lamps ;
His day is marching on.
“AS BY THE SHORE AT BREAK
A vanquished chief expiring lay,
He traced his farewell to the free;
He dying wrote, was “Liberty!"
Were covered by the sounding sea;
I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished
rows of steel: “ As ye deal with my contemners, so my
grace with you shall deal;"
THE PATRIOT'S PASSWORD. (On the achievement of Arnold de Winkelrled at the battle of Sempach, in which the Swiss secured the freedom their country, against the power of Austria, in the fourteenth century.)
AKE way for liberty !” he cried, Bright as the breakers' splendors run
Made way for liberty, and died. Along the billows to the sun. In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,
Opposed to these, a hovering band A living wall, a human wood;
Contended for their fatherland; A wall, where every conscious stone
Peasants, whose new-found strength had Seemed to its kindred thousands grown,
broke A rampart all assaults to bear,
For manly necks the ignoble yoke, Till time to dust their frames should wear; And beat their fetters into swords, À wood, like that enchanted grove
On equal terms to fight their lords; In which with friends Rinaldo strove,
And what insurgent rage had gained,
• Viake way for liberty! he cried,
Made way for liberty; and died." Where every silent tree possessed
In many a mortal fray maintained.
Marshaled once more, at Freedom's call.
Where he who conquered, he who fell,
Such virtue had that patriot breathed,
So to the soil his soul bequeathed, All horrent with projected spears,
That wheresoe'er his arrows flew, Whose polished points before them shine, Heroes in his own likeness grew, From flank to flank, one brilliant line, And warriors sprang from every sod