The American Union Speaker Part 41

New England's dead!--New England's dead!

On every hill they lie; On every field of strife made red By b.l.o.o.d.y victory.

Each valley, where the battle poured Its red and awful tide, Beheld the brave New England sword, With slaughter deeply dyed.

Their bones are on the northern hill, And on the southern plain, By brook and river, lake and rill, And by the roaring main.

The land is holy where they fought, And holy where they fell; For by their blood that land was bought, The land they loved so well.

Then glory to that valiant band, The honored saviours of the land!

O! few and weak their numbers were,-- A handful of brave men; But to their G.o.d they gave their prayer, And rushed to battle then.

The G.o.d of battles heard their cry, And sent to them the victory.

They left the ploughshare in the mould, Their flocks and herds without a fold, The sickle in the unshorn grain, The corn, half-garnered on the plain, And mustered in their simple dress, For wrongs to seek a stern redress; To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe,-- To perish or o'ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men?

And where are ye to-day?

I call:--the hills reply again That ye have pa.s.sed away; That on old Bunker's lonely height, In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The gra.s.s grows green, the harvest bright, Above each soldier's mound.

The bugle's wild and warlike blast Shall muster them no more; An army now might thunder past, And they not heed its roar.

The starry flag 'neath which they fought, In many a b.l.o.o.d.y day, From their old graves shall rouse them not; For they have pa.s.sed away.

I. M'Lellan.

CCXXII.

NEVER GIVE UP.

Never give up! it is wiser and better Always to hope, than once to despair;-- Fling off the load of doubt's cankering fetters, And break the dark spell of tyrannical care.

Never give up, or the burden may sink you,-- Providence kindly has mingled the cup; And in all trials and troubles bethink you, The watchword of life must be, "Never give up!"

Never give up; there are chances and changes, Helping the hopeful, a hundred to one, And through the chaos, High wisdom arranges Ever success, if you'll only hold on.

Never give up; for the wisest is boldest, Knowing that Providence mingles the cup, And of all maxims, the best, as the oldest, Is the stern watchword of "Never give up!"

Never give up, though the grape-shot may rattle, Or the full thunder-cloud over you burst; Stand like a rock, and the storm or the battle Little shall harm you, though doing their worst.

Never give up; if adversity presses, Providence wisely has mingled the cup; And the best counsel in all your distresses Is the brave watchword of "Never give up!"

Anonymous.

CCXXIII.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour, When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power: In dreams, through camp and court he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet ring; Then pressed that monarch's throne--a king;-- As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian's thousands stood,-- There had the glad earth drunk their blood, On old Plataea's day; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquered there, With arm to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they.

An hour pa.s.sed on--the Turk awoke; That bright dream was his last; He woke to hear his sentries shriek, "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"

He woke--to die midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet-loud, Bozzaris cheer his band: "Strike--till the last armed foe expires; Strike--for your altars and your fires; Strike--for the green graves of your sires,-- G.o.d--and your native land!"

They fought--like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquered--but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won: Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death!

Come to the mother, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in Consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet-song, and dance, and wine,-- And thou art terrible!--The tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave, Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee--there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime.

We tell thy doom without a sigh; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,-- One of the few, the immortal names That were not born to die!

F. G. Halleck.

CCXXIV.

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

When freedom, from her mountain height, Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there!

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure celestial white With streakings of the morning light; Then, from his mansion in the sun, She called her eagle bearer downy And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land!

Majestic monarch of the cloud!

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, And see the lightning's lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven!

Child of the sun! to thee 't is given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle stroke,-- And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war,-- The harbingers of victory!

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on.

Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn; And as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance.

And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall, Like shoots of flame on midnights pall; Then shall thy meteor-glances glow, And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home!

By angel hands to valor given; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven.

Forever float, that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!

J. R. Drake.

CCXXV.

THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE.

Do not lift him from the bracken, leave him lying where he fell-- Better bier ye cannot fashion: none beseems him half so well As the bare and broken heather, and the hard and broken sod, Whence his angry soul ascended to the judgment-seat of G.o.d!

Winding-sheet we cannot give him--seek no mantle for the dead, Save the cold and spotless covering showered from heaven upon his head.

Leave his broadsword as we found it, rent and broken with the blow, That, before he died, avenged him on the foremost of the foe.

Leave the blood upon the bosom--wash not off that sacred stain; Let it stiffen on the tartan, let his wounds unclosed remain, Till the day when he shall show them at the throne of G.o.d on high, When the murderer and the murdered meet before their Judge's eye.

Nay--ye should not weep, my children! leave it to the faint and weak; Sobs are but a woman's weapons--tears befit a maiden's cheek.

Weep not, children of Macdonald! weep not thou, his orphan heir; Not in shame, but stainless honor, lies thy slaughtered father there; Weep not--but when years are over, and thine arm is strong and sure, And thy foot is swift and steady on the mountain and the muir, Let thy heart be hard as iron, and thy wrath as fierce as fire, Till the hour when vengeance cometh for the race that slew thy sire!

Till in deep and dark Glenlyon rise a louder shriek of woe, Than at midnight, from their eyry, scared the eagles of Glencoe; Louder than the screams that mingled with the howling of the blast, When the murderers' steel was clashing, and the fires were rising fast; When thy n.o.ble father bounded to the rescue of his men, And the slogan of our kindred pealed throughout the startled glen; When the herd of frantic women stumbled through the midnight snow, With their fathers' houses blazing, and their dearest dead below!

Oh, the horror of the tempest, as the flashing drift was blown, Crimsoned with the conflagration, and the roofs went thundering down!

Oh, the prayers, the prayers and curses, that together winged their flight From the maddened hearts of many, through that long and woful night!-- Till the fires began to dwindle, and the shots grew faint and few, And we heard the foeman's challenge only in a far halloo: Till the silence once more settled o'er the gorges of the glen, Broken only by the Cona plunging through its naked den.

Slowly from the mountain summit was the drifting veil withdrawn, And the ghastly valley glimmered in the gray December dawn.

Better had the morning never dawned upon our dark despair!