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; Rise of moon, or set of sun, What cares he? he cannot know; As man may, he fought his fight, Sleep forever and forever. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know; Fold him in his country's stars, What to him are all our wars, What cares he? he cannot know; 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. Lay him low, lay him low, What cares he? he cannot know; ON THE WAR-BIGLOW PAPERS.-JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. YOU'RE in want o' sunthin' light an' cute, An' wish, pervidin' it 'ould suit, Run helter-skelter into Yankee. Time wuz, the rhymes came crowdin' thick 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, Thet follered once an' now are quiet,— Thet never knowed the paths o' Satan, Why, hain't I held 'em on my knee? 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'. 37. Wut 's words to them whose faith an' truth For the gret prize o' death in battle? 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 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 But proud, to meet a people proud, An' step thet proves ye Victory's daughter! Like shipwrecked men's on raf's for water. Come, while our country feels the lift Of a gret instinct shoutin' forwards, An' knows thet freedom ain't a gift Thet tarries long in han's o' cowards! 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. THE NATION'S DEAD. FOUR hundred thousand men, Lie dead for me and you! Four hundred thousand of the brave Good friends, for me and you! In many a fevered swamp, By many a black bayou, In many a cold and frozen camp, 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- These noble men-the nation's pride- For me and you! Good friend, for me and you! 39 In treason's prison-hold Their martyr spirits grew To stature like the saints of old, They starved for me and you! The good, the patient, and the tried, 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 Four hundred thousand of the brave 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 |