New World and Old

Glory

Rolled in triumphant blood.
Glad to strike one free blow,
Whether for weal or woe;
Glad to breathe one free breath,
Though on the lips of death;
Praying-alas, in vain!-
That they might fall again,
So they could once more see
That burst to liberty!

This was what "freedom" lent

To the black regiment.

Hundreds on hundreds fell;
But they are resting well;
Scourges, and shackles strong,
Never shall do them wrong.
Oh, to the living few,
Soldiers, be just and true!
Hail them as comrades tried;
Fight with them side by side;
Never, in field or tent,

Scorn the black regiment!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

Five seconds-it couldn't be more

And the whole Swarm was humming and alive

(We were on an enemy's shore.)

With savage haste, in the dark,
(Our steerage hadn't a spark,)
Into boot and hose they blundered-
From for'ard came a strange, low roar,
The dull and smothered racket
Of lower rig and jacket
Hurried on, by the hundred,

How the berth deck buzzed and swore!

The third of minutes ten,

And half a thousand men,

From the dream-gulf, dead and deep,

Of the seamen's measured sleep,

In the taking of a lunar,

In the serving of a ration,

Every man at his station!-

Three and a quarter, or sooner!

Never a skulk to be seen-

From the look-out aloft to the gunner

Lurking in his black magazine.

New World

and Old Glory

There they stand, still as death,
And, (a trifle out of breath,

It may be,) we of the Staff,
All on the poop, to a minute,
Wonder if there's anything in it—
Doubting if to growl or laugh.

But, somehow, every hand

Feels for hilt and brand,

Tries if buckle and frog be tight,

So, in the chilly breeze, we stand,

Peering through the dimness of the night—
The men by twos and ones,

Grim and silent at the guns,
Ready, if a Foe heave in sight!

But, as we look aloft,

There, all white and soft,

Floated on the fleecy clouds,
(Stray flocks in heaven's blue croft)—
How they shone, the eternal stars,

'Mid the black masts and spars

And the great maze of lifts and shrouds!

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

(Flag Ship" Hartford," May, 1864.)

Battle-Hymn of the Republic

New World

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of and Old

the Lord;

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored,

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword;

His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps,

I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps;

His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel;

"As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My grace shall deal:

Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,

Since God is marching on."

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;

He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat:

Glory

New World and Old

Glory

Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him,-be jubilant, my feet!

Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,

With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me:

As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,

While God is marching on.

JULIA WARD HOWE.

Sheridan's Ride*

October 19, 1864.

Up from the South at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door,
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar;

By courtesy of J. B. Lippincott & Co.