SEQUEL AFTER-TIMES.

Has Bull vos valking in London haround,
'E found the Times lyin' hupon the cold ground,
With a big bale hof cotton right hover 'is side;
Says Bull,"Hi perceive 'twas by cotton he died!"

MANASSAS.

BY FLORENCE WILLESFORD BORRON.

A requiem-raise the solemn strain,
Until it fires each mighty vein,
Till the great voices of the main
Speak in the tempest-strife;
Not for the hands in quiet laid,
Nor hearts that in the ranks arrayed,
The muster-roll of death obeyed-
The requiem raise-for Life!

A feeling thrills the ocean deep;
E'en Nature's self bends down, to weep
The tear above a nation's sleep,

Its night upon the wave;
They come the guardians of the land;
They come-that noble patriot band;
They come-heroes in heart and hand,
Those "bravest of the brave."

They fought where Glory, pale and low,
Lay wasted with the life below;
They rolled like thunder on the foe,

On lost Manassas' field;

'Gainst onward charge and rallying cry,
Though hope had fled, and death was nigh,
They bore, with gallant hearts and high,
Their eagle-flashing shield.

They came-in glory, power, and pride,
With trophies glittering by their side,
With banners won in battle's tide,

In triumph and in fame!

War-worn and stern-bankrupts of life-
Broken amid the fatal strife,

Scarred where Death's shot and shell were rife,
Those shattered columns came.

Before that Southern wall of dead,

What horror round their path was spread! E'en Bunker Hill's dark annals bled,

To be in fame outdone.

Back from the army of the slain,

From old Virginia's stern campaign,

The wreck from forth that iron rain

A mournful honor won.

Wake, glorious Union-save thy realm!
Upon the quicksands strikes thy helm !
Thy "morning-star" the storms o'erwhelm-
Thy "talent" buried lies.
Wake! by the sullen cannon's roar
That tumult bears from shore to shore,-
By HIM who cannot watch thee more,
Save downward from the skies.

Antæus-like, thy sons rebound, Uprising from the ensanguined ground, Unflinching heart and hand-around Shall peal the battle strain;

* Washington.

Now, three rousing cheers for the Union!

As we are marching on!

CHORUS.

Glory, halle-hallelujah! Glory, halle-hallelujah! Glory, halle-hallelujah!

Hip, hip, hip, hip, Hurrah!

-N. Y. Tribune, July 28.

THE BATTLE SUMMER.

BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.

The summer wanes,-her languid sighs now yield
To autumn's cheering air;
The teeming orchard and the waving field
Fruition's glory wear.

More clear against the flushed horizon wall,
Stand forth each rock and tree;

More near the cricket's note, the plover's call,
More crystalline the sea.

The sunshine chastened, like a mother's gaze,
The meadow's vagrant balm;
The purple leaf and amber-tinted maize
Reprove us while they calm;

For on the landscape's brightly pensive face,
War's angry shadows lie;

His ruddy stains upon the woods we trace,
And in the crimson sky.

No more we bask in Earth's contented smile,
But sternly muse apart;

Vainly her charms the patriot's soul beguile,
Or woo the orphan's heart.

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 pine-covered mountains for tombs;

But the light ye would smother was kindled by One Who gave to the universe planet and sun.

Go, strangle the throat of Niagara's wrath,

Till he utters no sound on his torrent-cut path;
Go, bind his green sinews of rock-wearing waves,
Till he begs at your feet like your own fettered
slaves.

Go, cover his pulses with sods of the ground,

Till he hides from your sight like a hare from the

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
Where men receive scourging in payment for toil;
Come, robbers! come, traitors! we welcome you all,
As the leaves of the forest are welcomed by fall.
The birthright of manhood awaits for your slaves,
But prisons and halters are waiting for knaves;
And the blades of our "mud-sills" are longing to rust
With their blood who would bury our stars in the dust.

They die unlamented by people and laws,
Whose lives are but shadows on Liberty's cause;
They slumber unblest by Fraternity star,

Who have blocked up the track of Humanity's car;
Regarded, when dead, by the wise and the good,
As shepherds regard the dead wolf in the wood;
And only unhated when Heaven shall efface
The mem'ry of wrong from the souls of the race.

The streams may forget how they mingled our gore,
And the myrtle entwine on their borders once more;
The song-birds of Peace may return to our glades,
And children join hands where their fathers joined

blades:

Columbia may rise from her trial of fire,

More pure than she came from the hand of her sire;
But Freedom will lift the cold finger of scorn,
When History tells where her Traitors were born.

"MY

MARYLAND."'*

[WORDS ALTERED.]

BY J. F. WEISHAMPEL, JR.
AIR-"My Normandy."

The traitor's foot is on thy shore,
Maryland, my Maryland!

His touch is on thy Senate door,
Maryland, my Maryland!

Avenge the patriotic gore

That flecked the streets of Baltimore, When vandal mobs thy banners tore,

Maryland, my Maryland!

Hark to the nation's loud appeal,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Before no perjured traitors kneel,
Maryland, my Maryland!

For life and death, for woe and weal,
Thy patriotic strength reveal,
And gird thy Union host in steel,

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, set 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 nerve 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 one not absorbed in the prevailing madness. The song was remodelled-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,

Maryland, my Maryland!
And tyrants mock from pole to pole,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Better the ocean over thee roll,
Than sever the Union's kind control,
And slave thy children, body and soul,
Maryland, my Maryland!

I hear the distant thunder hum,
Maryland, my Maryland!
The rebel foes of Freedom come,

Maryland, my Maryland!

They menace thee with ball and bomb!
Thou art not dead, or deaf, or dumb-
Huzza! 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,
Maryland, my Maryland!

Drum to thy old heroic song,
When forth to fight went Liberty's throng,
And bore the Spangled Banner along,
Maryland, my Maryland!

Dear State! Beware the tyrant's chain,
Maryland, my Maryland!

Behold Virginia's throes of pain,

Maryland, my Maryland!

While rapine staiks 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!
Maryland, MY MARYLAND!

October, 1861.

EIGHTY-FIVE YEARS AGO.

A BALLAD FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY.

BY A. J. II. DUGANNE.

Oh, how the past comes over me-
How the Old Days draw nigh!
Tramping along in battalia-
Marching the legions by,

With the drums of the Old Time beating,
And the Old Flag waving high!
And down from the mountain gorges,
And up from woodlands low,
Mustering for Liberty's conflict-
Eighty-five years ago!

Out of the streets of Lexington
I see the red-coats wheel;
And, back from the lines of Bunker,
Where Continentals kneel

And pray, with their iron musketry,
I see the red-coats reel;

And, reddening all the greensward,
I mark the life-blood flow
From the bosom of martyred Warren-
Eighty-five years ago!

Hearken to Stark, of Hampshire:

"Ho, comrades all!" quoth he"King George's Hessian hirelings On yonder plains ye see!

We'll beat them, boys! or Mary Stark
A widow this night shall be!"
And then, like a clap of thunder,

He broke upon the foe,

And he won the battle of Bennington-
Eighty-five years ago!

Down from the wild Green Mountains
Our fearless eagle swooped;
Down on Ticonderoga

Bold Ethan Allen stooped,
And the royal red-cross banner
Beneath his challenge drooped!
And the stout old border fortress

He gained without a blow,

"In the name of the Great Jehovah!" Eighty-five years ago!

Out from the resonant belfry
Of Independence Hall,

Sounded the tongue of a brazen bell,
Bidding good patriots all

To give the oppressed their freedom,
And lessen every thrall;

And the voice of brave John Hancock,
Preached to the people below,
The Gospel of Independence-
Eighty-five years ago!

And out from Sullivan's Island,
From dark palmetto fen,
I hear the roar of cannonry,
And the rifle-shots again;
And the voice of valiant Moultrie,
And the shouts of Marion's men!
And I see our stricken banner

Snatched from the ditch below,
By the hand of Sergeant Jasper-
Eighty-five years ago!

So, the Old Days come over me-
The Past around me rolls;
And the spell of a glorious History
My yearning sense controls,
And I sing of the Grand Example
Of old and loyal souls!
When the land we love lies bleeding,

And we hear her heart's wild throe, Let us think of the Old, Old Union,Eighty-five years ago!

-N. Y. Leader.

THE NINETEEN HUNDRED.

I.

Crossed the deep river,
Marched up the rugged bluffs,
Deployed in the open field-
Right in the field of death,
Stood Nineteen Hundred,
Heard but their leader's cry,
Shouted in glad reply,
Ready to do and die,
Brave Nineteen Hundred!

II.

Behind, the Potomac Gloomily rushed along; Forests to right of them, Forests to left of them,

Forests in front of them,

Filled with the rebel host-
Stormed with the murderous hail;
E'en in the tree-tops

Hung the fell marksmen,
Sending, like lightning-stroke,
Death to the bravest.

Here, in the field of death
Threefold outnumbered,
Stood Nineteen Hundred.

III.

Bravely they fought, and well,
Charging those sons of hell
Full in their ambuscade;
Drowning their savage yell
With cannon that thundered,
Belching forth shot and shell
Where lurked the traitor foe.
Many a fresh ragged glade
Showed the wild work they made,
Ploughing with shot and shell;
Dyeing the leaves below
With no autumnal glow.
So fought the loyal men,
Threefold outnumbered-
Fought Nineteen Hundred.

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
Over the river!

Ne'er shall their glory fade;
Massachusetts forever!
Bold Californians!

Sons of St. Tammany!

Joined here your glorious bands
Bravely to do and die.
Far in the distant years,
Still well remembered,

Old men, with gushing tears,
Will tell the proud story,
How, all outnumbered,
The brave Nineteen Hundred
Fought in that field of death,
Fought to their latest breath,
For the Union and glory;

How from their blood there sprang
Thousands to fight again;
How the shout of battle rang
Far over hill and plain,

Till the Stars and Stripes on high,

Like a banner in the sky,
Waved for our victory.

VI.

Honor the living and dead,
Honor the hoary head-
Him who the battle led;
Honor the granite rocks
Of the old Bay State;
Honor the golden rocks
Of the golden gate,
Breasting the battle shocks;
Honor the Keystone State,
Honor the Empire State,
Ever standing together,
Symbols of Union and strength;
Honor all the brave,

Who dashed o'er the river;

Ne'er can their names be sundered,Honor the Nineteen Hundred;

By the blood that was shed,

By the souls of the dead,
By the spirit that burns
Unquenched, at their urns,
Swear, sword in hand,
That our country shall stand
United forever!

TO GENERAL BUTLER.

BY BAY STATE."

Ben. Butler, my boy,
It gives me much joy

Of your brave words and acts to hear;
So prompt and so quick,
You are truly a "brick,"
Knowing not the meaning of fear.

A MONARCH DETHRONED.

BY MRS. E. VALE SMITH.

"Old Cotton, the King, boys-aha !— With his locks so fleecy and white," Descends, like a falling star,

To the sceptre he had no right,-
Boys, no right!

To the sceptre he had no right.

Old Cotton, the King, was so bold,

With injustice to prop up his throne, That now he's left out in the coldThe nations all leave him alone,Boys, alone!

The nations all leave him alone.

Old Cotton, the King, built his throne On the slaves' forced toil and tears, And each bale was bound with a groan; So he's dead of his guilty fears,Boys, his fears!

So he's dead of his guilty fears.

Old Cotton no more holds the reins;
He's dismembered as well as dead;
His cold heart in the South remains,
But his limbs are mangled and red,-
Boys, and red!
But his limbs are mangled and red.

Old Cotton, the once potent King,
Is struck from his impotent throne;