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WE

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.
The music seemed itself aflame
With day's departing splendor.

As fades the iris after rain,

In April's tearful weather, A Federal band, which eve and morn

Tke Vision vanished, as the strain
Played measures brave and nimble,

And daylight died together.
Had just struck up with flute and horn
And lively clash of cymbal.

But memory, waked by music's art,

Expressed in simplest numbers,
Down flocked the soldiers to the banks, Subduedthe sternest Yankeesheart,
Till, margined by its pebbles,

Made light the Rebel's slumbers.
One wooded shore was blue with “Yanks,”
And one was gray with “ Rebels.”

And fairthe form of Musicshines,

That bright celestial creature,
Then all was still; and then the band, Who still, mid war's embattled lines,
With movement light and tricksy,

Gave this one touch of nature.
Made stream and forest, hill and strand

John RANDOLPH THOMPSON. Reverberate with “ Dixie."

MONTEREY.
The conscious stream, with burnished glow,
Went proudly o'er its pebbles,

E were not many, we who stood
But thrilled throughout its deepest flow

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
Again a pause, and then again

Have been with us at Montereya
The trumpet pealed sonorous,
And " Yankee Doodle” was the strain

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 ;

Theirdyingsbqutat Monterey
Loud shrieked the swarming boys in blue
Defiance to the Rebels.

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.
Or blue or gray, the soldier sees,
As by the wand of fairy,

We are not many, wewho pressed
The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees,

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."
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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.
The victims of a grand despair

And almost lost in myriad graves
In long, long lines of death await
The last loud trump, the Judgment sun

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,
In dazzling day or dimmest night.

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 men in blue who once uprose
In battle-front to smite their foes,

The dead had rest; the dove had peace
The Spartan bands who wore the gray. Brooded o'er both with equal wings.

To both had come that great surcease,
The last omnipotent release
From all the world's delirious stings,

To bugle deaf, and signal gun,
They slept like heroes of old Greece,

Beneath the glebe at Arlington.

Her song-birds wove their dainty bowers
Amid the jasmine buds and flowers,
And piped with an impartial trust.

Waifs of the air and liberal sun,
Their guileless glees were kind and just

To friend and foe at Arlington.

And in the spring's benignant reign,

The sweet May woke her harp of pines,
Teaching her choir a thrilling strain
Of jubilee to land and main.
She danced in emerald down the lines,

Denying largess bright to none;
She saw no difference in the signs

That told who slept at Arlington.

And 'mid the generous spring there came

Some women of the land who strove
To make this funeral field of fame
Glad as the May God's altar flame,
With rosy wreaths of mutual love;

Unmindful who had lost or won,
They scorned the jargon of a name-
No North, no South, at Arlington.

IJAMES RYDER RANDALL.

She gave her grasses and her showers

To all alike who dreamed in dust;

VINDICATION.
ERE I only to suffer death, after being adjudged guilty by your tribunal, I should

bow in silence, and meet the fate that awaits me without a murmur; but the sen-
tence of the law which delivers my body to the executioner will, through the minis-

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.

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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!

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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.

ROBERT EMMET.

CAVALRI SONG.

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.
Heaven help those whose horses fall:
Cut left and right!

MRS. JULIA WARD HOW E.

[graphic]

They flee before our fierce attack!

They fall! they spread in broken surges.
Now, comrades, bear our wounded back,
And leave the foeman to his dirges.

WHEEL!
The bugles sound the swift recall:
Cling! clang! backward all!

Home, and good-night!

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE

REPUBLIC

M here the record in the glory of the com

MRS. JULIA WARD HOWE.

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

OF DAY."
S by the shore, at break of day,

A vanquished chief expiring lay,
Upon the sands, with broken sword,

He traced his farewell to the free;
And there the last unfinished word

He dying wrote, was “Liberty!"
At night a sea-bird shrieked the knell
Of him who thus for freedom fell;
The words he wrote ere evening came,

Were covered by the sounding sea;
So pass away the cause and name
Of him who dies for liberty !

THOMAS MOORE.

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,

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• Viake way for liberty! he cried,

Made way for liberty; and died." Where every silent tree possessed

In many a mortal fray maintained.
A spirit imprisoned in its breast,

Marshaled once more, at Freedom's call.
Which the first stroke of coming strife They came to conquer or to fall,
Might startle into hideous life;

Where he who conquered, he who fell,
So still, so dense, the Austrians stood, Was decmed a dead, a living Tell;
A living wall, a human wood.

Such virtue had that patriot breathed,
Impregnable their front appears,

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

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