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Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows,
And then went back to his bees and cows.

This is the story of old John Burns;
This is the moral the reader learns :
In fighting the battle, the question's whether
You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather!

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER.-GEO. H. BOKER.

CLOSE his

eyes ;

his work is done;
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon, or set of sun,
Hand of man, or kiss of woman?

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow !
What cares he ? he cannot know;

Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight,

Proved his truth by his endeavor;
Let him sleep in solemn right;
Sleep forever and forever.

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he ? he cannot know;

Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars,

Roll the drum and fire the volley;
What to him are all our wars,
What but death-bemocking folly ?

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow !
What cares he ? he cannot know;

Lay him low!

Leave him to God's watching eye,

Trust him to the hand that made him, Mortal love sweeps idly by

God alone has power to aid him.

ON THE WAR.

37 .

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he ? 'he cannot know;

Lay him low!

ON THE WAR-BIGLOW PAPERS.-JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

YOU'RE in want o' sunthin' light an' cute,

Rattlin' an' shrewd an' kin' o' jingleish,
An' wish, pervidin' it ’ould suit,

I'd take an' citify my English.
I ken write long-tailed, ef I please,

But when I'm jokin', no, I thankee;
Then, 'fore I know it, my idees

Run helter-skelter into Yankee.

Time wuz, the rhymes came crowdin' thick

Ez office-seekers arter 'lection,
An' into ary place 'ould stick

Without no bother nor objection;
But sence the war my thoughts hang back

Ez though I wanted to enlist 'em,
An' subs'tutes,—they don't never lack,

But then they'll slope afore you've mist 'em.

Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street

I hear the drummers makin' riot,
An' I set thinkin' o' the feet

Thet follered once an' now are quiet, --
White feet as snowdrops innercent,

Thet never knowed the paths o' Satan,
Whose comin' step ther''s ears thet won't,

No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin'.

Why, hain't I held 'em on my knee?

Didn't I love to see 'em growin',
Three likely lads ez wal could be,

Hansome an' brave an' not tu knowin'?
I set an' look into the blaze

Whose natur, jes' like theirn, keeps climbin',
Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways,

An' half despise myself for rhymin'.

Wut 's words to them whose faith an' truth

On War's red techstone rang true metal, Who ventered life an' love an' youth

For the gret prize o' death in battle ? To him who, deadly hurt, agen

Flashed on afore the charge's thunder, Tippin' with fire the bolt of men

Thet rived the Rebel line asunder ?

'T ain't right to hev the young go fust,

All throbbin' full o' gifts an' graces, Leavin' life's paupers dry ez dust

To try an' make b’lieve fill their places: Nothin' but tells us wut we miss,

Ther' 's gaps our lives can't never fay in, An' thet world seems so far from this

Lef' for us loafers to grow gray in!

My eyes cloud up for rain; my mouth

Will take to twitchin' roun' the corners; I pity mothers, tu, down South,

For all they sot among the scorners: I'd sooner take my chance to stan'

At Jedgment where your meanest slave is, Than at God's bar hol' up a han'

Ez drippin' red as yourn, Jeff Davis! Come, Peace! not like a mourner bowed

For houor lost an' dear ones wasted, But proud, to meet a people proud,

With eyes that tell o triumph tasted ! Come, with han' grippin' on the hilt,

An' step thet proves ye Victory's daughter! Longin' for you, our sperits wilt

Like shipwrecked men's on raf's for water. Come, while our country feels the lift

Of a gret instinct shoutin' forwards, An' kuows thet freedom ain't a gift

Thet tarries long in han's o' cowards I Come, sech ez mothers prayed for, when

They kissed their cross with lips thet quivered, An' bring fair wages for brave men,

A nation saved, a race delivered!

THE NATION'S DEAD,

39

THE NATION'S DEAD.

FOUR hundred thousand men,

The brave—the good—the true,
In tangled wood, in mountain glen,
On battle-field, in prison-pen,

Lie dead for me and you!
Four hundred thousand of the brave
Have made our ransomed soil their grave,

For me and you!
Good friends, for me and you!

In many a fevered swamy,

By many a black bayou,
In many a cold and frozen camp,
The weary sentinel ceased his tramp,

And died for me and you!
From Western plain to ocean tide
Are stretched the graves of those who died,

For me and you!
Good friends, for me and you!

On many a bloody plain

Their ready swords they drew,
And poured their life-blood, like the rain,
A home-a heritage, to gain,

To gain for me and you!
Our brothers mustered by our side,
They marched and fought and bravely died,

For me and you!
Good friend, for me and you !

Up many a fortress wall

They charged—those boys in blue 'Mid surging smoke, and volley'd ball, The bravest were the first to fall !

To fall for me and you!
These noble men—the nation's pride-
Four hundred thousand men have died,

For me and you!
Good friend, for me and you!

In treason's prison-hold

Their martyr spirits grew
To stature like the saints of old,
While, adrid agonies untold,

They starved for me and you!
The good, the patient, and the tried,
Four hundred thousand men have died,

For me and you!
Good friend, for me and you !

A debt we ne'er can pay

To them is justly due,
And to the nation's latest day
Our children's children then shall say,

• They died for me and you !"
Four hundred thousand of the brave
Made this, our ransomed soil, their grave,

For me and you!
Good friend, for me and you !

FREEDOM.-E. D. BAKER.

Who ever heard of any man reciting a poem to Slavery? But if you want the noblest and most inspiring poems, save those from heaven, read Milton, read Shelley, read Homer, read Halleck, read Bryant; above all--read Shakspeare. There are poets who sell themselves, with venal spirit, to flatter in the atmosphere of courts; but even they, seduced by the pomp and brilliancy of fashion, cannot break into praise of Slavery. They may praise the despot himself, but the iniquity of slavish servitude they dare not crown with song. The hauteur of the poet will not allow it, and his hand trembles, falters, and is palsied ere he attempt to sweep it in such praise across the lyre of song. But when you talk to him of Freedom, the lip of the poet quivers with inspiration; his heart glows, and the numbers break out as the stream dashes from the mountain top to seek the valley below-bright, clear, sparkling, FREE. And are you ashamed to march in that procession? Shall reproach, shall malignant slander, shall base

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