The field of strife, whose dews are blood, whose breezes War's hot breath, Whose fruits are garner'd in the grave, whose husbandman is Death! Without a murmur, he endured a service new and hard; But, wearied with a toilsome march, it chanced one night, on guard, He sank, exhausted, at his post, and the gray morning found So, in the silence of the night, aweary, on the sod, 'Twas night. In a secluded room, with measured tread, and slow, A statesman of commanding mien, paced gravely to and fro. On brothers arm'd in deadly strife:-it was the President! The woes of thirty millions fill'd his burden'd heart with grief; 'Twas morning.-On a tented field, and through the heated haze, Flash'd back, from lines of burnish'd arms, the sun's effulgent blaze; While, from a sombre prison-house, seen slowly to emerge, And in the midst, with faltering step, and pale and anxious face, A youth-led out to die ;--and yet, it was not death, but shame, That smote his gallant heart with dread, and shook his manly frame! Still on, before the marshall'd ranks, the train pursued its way His coffin! And, with reeling brain, despairing—desolate- Then came across his wavering sight strange pictures in the air: He saw his distant mountain home; he saw his mother there; He saw his father bow'd with grief, through fast-declining years; Yet, once again. In double file, advancing, then, he saw But saw no more:-his senses swam-deep darkness settled round And, shuddering, he awaited now the fatal volley's sound! Then suddenly was heard the noise of steeds and wheels approach, And, rolling through a cloud of dust, appear'd a stately coach. bent, Till, halting, 'mid the lines was seen the nation's President! He came to save that stricken soul, now waking from despair; And from a thousand voices rose a shout which rent the air! The pardon'd soldier understood the tones of jubilee, And, bounding from his fetters, bless'd the hand that made him free! 'Twas Spring.-Within a verdant vale, where Warwick's crystal tide Reflected, o'er its peaceful breast, fair fields on either side- Two threatening armies! One invoked by injured Liberty- A sudden shock which shook the earth, 'mid vapor dense and dun, Proclaim'd, along the echoing hills, the conflict had begun; While shot and shell, athwart the stream with fiendish fury sped, To strew among the living lines the dying and the dead! Then, louder than the roaring storm, peal'd forth the stern command, "Charge! soldiers, charge!" and, at the word, with shouts, a fearless band, Two hundred heroes from Vermont, rush'd onward, through the flood, And upward o'er the rising ground, they mark'd their way in blood! The smitten foe before them fled, in terror, from his postWhile, unsustain'd, two hundred stood, to battle with a host! Then, turning, as the rallying ranks, with murderous fire, replied They bore the fallen o'er the field, and through the purple tide! The fallen! And the first who fell in that unequal strife, Was he whom Mercy sped to save when Justice claim'd his life The pardon'd soldier! And, while yet the conflict raged around— While yet his life-blood ebb'd away through every gaping wound While yet his voice grew tremulous, and death bedimm'd his eye He call'd his comrades to attest he had not fear'd to die! And, in his last expiring breath, a prayer to heaven was sentThat God, with His unfailing grace, would bless our President! SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.—By George H. Boker. The ice was here, the ice was there, O, WHITHER sail you, Sir John Franklin? To know if between the land and the pole I charge you back, Sir John Franklin, For between the land and the frozen pole But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, Half England is wrong, if he is right; O, whither sail you, brave Englishman? Between the land and the polar star Come down, if you would journey there, And change your cloth for fur clothing, But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, All through the long, long polar day, And wherever the sail of Sir John was blown, Gave way with many a hollow groan, And with many a surly roar ; But it murmured and threatened on every side, Ho! see ye not, my merry men, Sir John, Sir John, 'tis bitter cold, Bright summer goes, dark winter comes- But long ere summer's sun goes down, The dripping icebergs dipped and rose, The ships were staid, the yards were manned, The summer's gone, the winter's come, We sail not on yonder sea; Why sail we not, Sir John Franklin? The summer goes, the winter comes- I ween, we cannot rule the ways, The cruel ice came floating on, Till the thickening waters dashed no more; My God! there is no sea! What think you of the whaler now? A sled were better than a ship, Down sank the baleful crimson sun, And glared upon the ice-bound ships, And shook its spears about. The snow came down, storm breeding storm, And on the decks was laid; Till the weary sailor, sick at heart, Sank down beside his spade. Sir John, the night is black and long, The hard, green ice is strong as death; The night is neither bright nor short, What hope can scale this icy wall, The summer went, the winter came- The winter went, the summer went, But the hard, green ice was strong as death, Hark! heard you not the noise of guns? As he turns in the frozen main. Hurra! hurra! the Esquimaux God give them grace for their charity! Sir John, where are the English fields? Be still, be still, my brave sailors! And smell the scent of the opening flowers, Oh! when shall I see my orphan child? Oh! when shall I see my old mother, Be still, be still, my brave sailors, |