All things once prized and honored are forgot;
The freedom that we worshipped next to Thee;
The manhood that was freedom's spear and shield;
The proud, true heart; the brave, outspoken word,
Which might be stifled, but could never wear
The guise, whate'er the profit, of a lie;
All these are gone, and in their stead have come
The vices of the miser and the slave-
Scorning no shame that bringeth gold or power,
Knowing no love, or faith, or reverence,
Or sympathy, or tie, or aim, or hope,
Save as begun in self, and ending there.
With vipers such as these, oh! blessed God!
Scourge us no longer! Send us down. once more,
Some shining seraph in Thy glory glad,
To wake the midnight of our sorrowing
With tidings of good will and peace to men;
And if that star, that through the darkness led
Earth's wisdom then, guide not our folly now,
Oh, be the lightning Thine Evangelist,
With all its fiery, forked tongues, to speak
The unanswerable message of Thy will.
Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us Peace
Peace in our hearts and at Thine altars; Peace
On the red waters and their blighted shores;
Peace for the 'leaguered cities, and the hosts
That watch and bleed around them and within,
Peace for the homeless and the fatherless;
Peace for the captive on his weary way,
And for the mad crowds who jeer his helplessness;
For them that suffer, them that do the wrong,
Sinning and sinned against. O God! for all;
For a distracted, torn, and bleeding land-
Speed the glad tidings! Give us, give us Peace
AHA! a song for the trumpet's tongue!
For the bugle to sing before us,
When our gleaming guns, like clarions
Shall thunder in battle chorus!
Where the rifles ring, where the bullets sing,
Where the black bombs whistle o'er us,
With rolling wheel and rattling peal
They'll thunder in battle chorus!
With the cannon's flash, and the cannon's crash
With the cannon's roar and rattle,
Let Freedom's sons with their shouting guns
Go down to their country's battle.
Their brassy throats shall learn the notes
That make old tyrants quiver,
Till the war is done, or each TYRREL gun,
Grows cold with our hearts forever!
Where the laurel waves o'er our brother's graves
Who have gone to their rest before us,
Here's a requiem shall sound for them
And thunder in battle chorus!
With the cannon's flash, and the cannon's crash
With the cannon's roar and rattle,
Let Freedom's sons with their shouting guns,
Go down to their country's battle.
By the light that lies in our southern skies;
By the spirits that watch above us;
By the gentle hands in our summer lands,
And the gentle hearts that love us!
Our fathers' faith let us keep till death-
Their fame in its cloudless splendor-
As men who stand for their mother-land,
And die-but never surrender!
With the cannon's flash, and the cannon's crash,
With the cannon's roar and rattle,
Let Freedom's sons, with their shouting guns,
Go down to their country's battle!
Music in Camp.
BY JOHN R. THOMPSON.
Two armies covered hill and plain,
Where Rappahannock's waters
Ran, deeply crimsoned with the stain
Of battle's recent slaughters.
The summer clouds lay pitched like tents
In meads of heavenly azure;
And each dread gun of the elements
Slept in its hid embrasure.
The breeze so softly blew it made
No forest leaf to quiver,
And the smoke of the random cannonade
Rolled slowly from the river.
And now, where circling hills looked down,
With cannon grimly planted,
O'er listless camp and silent town
The golden sunset slanted.
When on the fervid air there came
A strain--now rich, now tender;
The music seemed itself aflame
With day's departing splendor.
A Federal band, which, eve and morn,
Played measures brave and nimble,
Had just struck up, with flute and horn
And lively clash of cymbal.
Down flocked the soldiers to the banks,
Till, margined by its pebbles,
One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks,"
And one was gray with "Rebels."
Then all was still, and then the band,
With movement light and tricksy,
Made stream and forest, hill and strand,
Reverberate with "Dixie."
The conscious stream with burnished glow,
Went proudly o'er its pebbles,
But thrilled throughout its deepest flow
With yelling of the Rebels.
Again a pause, and then again
The trumpets pealed sonorous,
And "Yankee Doodle" was the strain
To which the shore gave chorus.
The laughing ripple shoreward flew,
To kiss the shining pebbles;
Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue
Defiance to the Rebels.
And yet once more the bugles sang
Above the stormy riot;
No shout upon the evening rang—
There reigned a holy quiet.
The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles;
All silent now the Yankees stood,
And silent stood the Rebels.
No unresponsive soul had heard
That plaintive note's appealing,
So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred
The hidden founts of feeling.
Or Blue or Gray, the soldier sees,
As by the wand of fairy,
The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees,
The cabin by the prairie.
Or cold or warm, his native skies
Bend in their beauty o'er him;
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,
His loved ones stand before him.
As fades the iris after rain
In April's tearful weather,
The vision vanished, as the strain
And daylight died together.
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