In the tangled swamp they lay, They flushed in the fevered ward. They rotted in Libby yonder, They starved in the foul stockade,— Hearing afar the thunder Of the Union cannonade! But the old wounds all are healed, They've 'scaped from the torture-den, That died for Thee and for God! A tenderer green than May The Eternal Season wears,The blue of our summer's day Is dim and pallid to theirs,The Horror faded away, And 'twas heaven all unawares! Tents on the Infinite Shore ! The troops are all in their lines, But every bayonet shines, What lofty pennons flaunt ? The Cumberland's manned again! All the ships and their men Are in line of battle to-day, All at quarters, as when Their last roll thundered away, All at their guns, as then, For the Fleet salutes to-day. The armies have broken camp With alignment firm and solemn, In mighty square and column,— The Old Flag they died under Of the thirty guns and four! In solid platoons of steel, Under heaven's triumphal arch, The long lines break and wheel; And the word is, "Forward, march The colors ripple o'erhead, The drums roll up to the sky, And with martial time and tread The regiments all pass by,- March on, your last brave mile! It never had known erewhile,- Close round him, hearts of pride! Waits to welcome his own. HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL. PROMETHEUS VINCTUS. [Written while Jefferson Davis was a prisoner in Fortress Monroe, where he was confined for two years after the downfall of the Confederacy.] PROMETHEUS on the cold rock bound, The vulture at his heart, In you, O Southern Chief, has found The Titan by his wondrous skill He made a dull insensate thing, Your spirit, with life's stirring spring, Like him, your greatness did you wrong, Your virtue was your bane; Each soared above the common throng, Your aims alike were noble; well Each, having done his utmost, fell— Ye fell, but gained a height sublime, No farther may the semblance go. While you, O gentle sufferer, feel, Within your grated prison cell Of fierce Tiberias, he exerts A spirit-soothing calm, And heals the sting of earthly hurts Around you in unending play And white with crests of seething spray These ocean-surges well express Chains and a prison cannot wrest The stately land you strove to save, But though she weeps her cherished dead No tears of bitterness are shed You hold her heart-strings in your hand, That strikes you as you helpless stand Falls doubly hard on her! Heaven help us all! The New Year dawns Again with gladsome birth; God grant, ere many smiling morns Have glorified the earth, |