FREMONT'S BATTLE-HYMN. BY JAMES G. CLARK. Oh, spirits of Washington, Warren, and Wayne! And smile on the banner ye cherished of old; When the white fleets, like snowflakes, are drank by the seas. As the red lightnings run on the black jagged cloud, Ere the thunder-king speaks from his wind-woven shroud, So gleams the bright steel along valley and shore, Proud sons of the soil where the Palmetto grows, And stolen from man the best gift of his God; And the eyes of humanity blinded with crime. The hounds of oppression were howling the knell tears. But God never ceases to strike for the right, And the ring of His anvil came down through the night, Though the world was asleep, and the nations seemed dead, And Truth into bondage by Error was led. Will the banners of morn at your bidding be furled, breast, Or turn him aside from his goal in the West? Ah! sons of the plains where the orange tree blooms, Ye may come to our pinc-covered mountains for tombs ; But the light ye would smother was kindled by One Go, strangle the throat of Niagara's wrath, Go, cover his pulses with sods of the ground, hound; Then swarm to our borders and silence the notes That thunder of freedom from millions of throats. Come on with your "chattels," all worn, from the soil They die unlamented by people and laws, Who have blocked up the track of Humanity's car; The streams may forget how they mingled our gore, blades: Columbia may rise from her trial of fire, More pure than she came from the hand of her sire; "MY MARYLAND." [WORDS ALTERED.] BY J. F. WEISHAMPEL, JR. The traitor's foot is on thy shore, Avenge the patriotic gore That Hecked the streets of Baltimore, When vandal mobs thy banners tore, Maryland, my Maryland! Hark to the nation's loud appeal, For life and death, for woe and weal, Maryland, my Maryland ! Thou shouldst not cower in the dust, Maryland, my Maryland! Shake off thy sloth, wipe off thy rust, Maryland, my Maryland! Remember Washington's great trust, Preserve it from the foeman's thrust, And hope in God-thy cause is just ! Maryland, my Maryland! Some months ago, a Secession song, sct to a fine piece of music, and entitled "My Maryland," appeared in Southern papers, and was played and sung with great pleasure by the Secession ladies. The song had a line of real nervo running through it which rendered it very popular; but the sentiment was so false, and founded upon such gross misrepresentations, that it was offensive to any ono not absorbed in the prevailing madness. The song was romodelled-its fire was turned against the enemy-and here we have it, the true utterance of a patriotism that still lives among the people of Maryland-as time will show. See page 93, Poetry and Incidents, vol. 1. Hark, how the bells of Freedom toll, I hear the distant thunder hum, Maryland, my Maryland They menace thee with ball and bomb! Thou art not dead, or deaf, or dumbHuzza! I hear thy fife and drum! Maryland, my Maryland! Drum out thy phalanx brave and strong, Maryland, my Maryland! Drum forth to balance Right and Wrong, Dear State! Beware the tyrant's chain, Behold Virginia's throes of pain, Maryland, my Maryland! While rapine stalks her wide domain, Know this, that crime awhile may reign, But God will make all right again, Maryland, my Maryland! Our God will make all right again! October, 1801. EIGHTY-FIVE YEARS AGO. A BALLAD FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY. BY A. J. H. DUGANNE. Oh, how the past comes over me- With the drums of the Old Time beating, Out of the streets of Lexington And, back from the lines of Bunker, And, reddening all the greensward, I mark the life-blood flow From the bosom of martyred WarrenEighty-five years ago! Hearken to Stark, of Hampshire: We'll beat them, boys! or Mary Stark Forests in front of them, A widow this night shall be!" And then, like a clap of thunder, He broke upon the foe, And he won the battle of BenningtonEighty-five years ago! Down from the wild Green Mountains Our fearless eagle swooped; Bold Ethan Allen stooped, "In the name of the Great Jehovah !" Eighty-five years ago! Out from the resonant belfry Sounded the tongue of a brazen bell, To give the oppressed their freedom, And the voice of brave John Hancock, And out from Sullivan's Island, Snatched from the ditch below, So, the Old Days come over me- -N. Y. Leader. THE NINETEEN HUNDRED. I. Crossed the deep river, II. Behind, the Potomac Gloomily rushed along; Forests to right of them, Forests to left of them, Filled with the rebel host- Here, in the field of death Bravely they fought, and well, IV. Threefold outnumbered, Thinner and thinner grew Ranks without fear and true, Falling where firm they stood, Drenching the earth with blood, Wrapped in the smoke of deathNo more Nineteen Hundred; The river behind them, Forests to right of them, Forests to left of them, Forests in front of them, Filled with the storm of hell, Flashing with death-strokes. Bravely the gunners fell, Facing that storm of hellFighting till all went down ; Then stood the guns alone, Silent their thunders. Still loud their leader's cry Cheered to the onset; Still bravely made reply All that remained yet Of Nineteen Hundred. Towered that noble form, Still aloft that gray head, Beacon 'mid the battle's storm. Dashed by a traitor's hand, Down sunk that beacon light. Crushed by the rushing mass, Threefold outnumbering, Charging on front of them, Charging on flank of them, Borne to the rugged bluffs, Nothing to stay them; Swamped in the crazy boats, Plunged in the roaring flood, Wounded and dying; Pelted by leaden hail, Fierce and unsparing, Making their passage good, Many bold swimmers; Oh, the wild dash they made Ne'er shall their glory fade; Sons of St. Tammany! Joined here your glorious bands Old men, with gushing tears, How from their blood there sprang Till the Stars and Stripes on high, Like a banner in the sky, VI. Honor the living and dead, Who dashed o'er the river; Ne'er can their names be sundered, Honor the Nineteen Hundred; By the souls of the dead, TO GENERAL BUTLER. BY "BAY STATE." Ben. Butler, my boy, Of your brave words and acts to hear; Each continent now claims a limb; His heart, cold and chill it has grown,Boys, has grown! His heart, cold and chill it has grown. Old Cotton will once more arise, Will stretch to the Indies a hand. Old King Cotton's white feet will spring A line from the central zone, Of him who once ruled alone. -N. Y. Evening Post, July 18. GOD PRESERVE THE UNION. BY JOHN SAVAGE. "There is no safety for European monarchical Governments, if the progressive spirit of the Democracy of the United States is allowed to succeed. Elect Lincoln, and the first blow to the separation of the United States is effected."-London Morning Chronicle. "I hold, further, that there is no evil in this country for which the Constitution and laws will not furnish a romedy. Then we must maintain our rights inside of the Union in conformity with the Constitution, and not break up the Union."-Douglas at Memphis, October, 1860. Brothers, there are times when nations So, friends, fill up Here's blood and blow And GOD PRESERVE THE UNION ! There are factions passion-goaded, In brotherly communion, Cry "North and South," And GOD PRESERVE THE UNION! While the young Republic's bosom Where its white slaves may unbend them, Or bend but to Freedom's God Europe madly hails the omen- A native treason toiling at So, friends, let's all, 'Gainst the kingly crowd, And GOD PRESERVE THE UNION! Since that day, when frantic people Round the State House rose and fell, Like an angry ocean surging Round some rock-reared citadelWhen the Quaker City trembled 'Neath the arming people's tramp, And the Bell proclaimed to iron men Each house in the land a campDemocracy has kept that Bell Still pealing sound on sound, Has throbbed the wide earth round. So let it bring Us brotherly communion; Here's heart and hand! For life and land! And GOD PRESERVE THE UNION ! TO ARMS! TO ARMS! BY DR. REYNOLDS, Assistant Surgeon, Twenty-fourth N. Y. Regt., (Oswego.) Respectfully Inscribed to Gen. Van Valkenburgh, the Soldier and the Gentleman. To arms to arms! Columbia's foe To arms to arms! and overthrow For more than life we freemen prize CHORUS-TO arms to arms! &c. Let cravens yield their struggling breath Be ours the warrior's glorious death, CHORUS-To arms! to arms! &c. Kind Heaven to us in mercy gave |