And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold,

As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town,

A good broad highway leading down;

And there, through the flash of the morning light,
A steed as black as the steeds of night
Was seen to pass as with eagle flight;
As if he knew the terrible need,

He stretched away with the utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell-but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering
South,

The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth;
On the tail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
Impatient to be where the battlefield calls;
Every nerve of the charger was strained to full
play,

With Sheridan only ten miles away.

New World and Old Glory

Under his spurning feet the road

Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,

New World

znd Old Glory

And the landscape flowed away behind,
Like an ocean flying before the wind;

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire;

But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire,

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the General saw were the groups
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops.
What was done? what to do? A glance told him
both.

Then, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath,
He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas.
And the wave of retreat checked its course there.
because

The sight of the master compelled it to pause.
With foam and with dust the black charger was

gray;

By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play,
He seemed to the whole great army to say,
"I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester down to save the day!"

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan!

Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!

And when their statues are placed on high,
Under the dome of the Union sky,

The American soldier's Temple of Fame,―
There with the glorious General's name,

Be it said, in letters both bold and bright,
"Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester, twenty miles away!"

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ

Ner World and Old Glory

Song of the Negro Boatman

O, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come
To set de people free;

An' massa tink it day ob doom,

An' we ob jubilee.

De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves

He jus’ as trong as den;

He say de word: we las' night slaves;
To-day, de Lord's freemen.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
We'll hab de rice an' corn;

O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!

Ole massa on he trabbels gone;

He leaf de land behind:

De Lord's breff blow him furder on.

Like corn-shuck in de wind.

We own de hoe, we own de plough,

We own de hands dat hold;

New World and Old

Glory

We sell de pig, we sell de cow,

But nebber chile be sold.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
We'll hab de rice an' corn;

O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!

We pray de Lord: he gib us signs
Dat some day we be free;
De norf-wind tell it to de pines,
De wild-duck to de sea;

We tink it when de church-bell ring,
We dream it in de dream;

De rice-bird mean it when he sing,
De eagle when he scream.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
We'll hab de rice an' corn;

O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!

We know de promise nebber fail,

An' nebber lie de word;

So like de 'postles in de jail,

We waited for de Lord:

An' now he open ebery door,
An' trow away de key;

He tink we lub him so before,

We lub him better free.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
He'll gib de rice an' corn;

O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear

De driver blow his horn!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

From "At Port Royal."

New World and Old Glory

Barbara Frietchie

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the Lord,

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain wall,-

Over the mountains, winding down,

Horse and foot into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind; the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.