24 BATTLE HYMN OF THe republic.

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished

ee

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;

O, 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.

BANNOCKBURN.

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.

COTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie.

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lower;
See approach proud Edward's power
Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa'?
Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Burns.

ODE TO THE BRAVE.

OW sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

William Collins.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

T 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 Platæa's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arms to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.

28

MARCO BOZZARIS.

An hour passed 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;

God and your native land!"

They fought like brave men, long and well;

They piled the ground with Moslem slain;

They conquered - but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile when rung 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.