I see the enslaved, the overthrown, the hurt, the oppress'd of the whole earth;

I feel the measureless shame and humiliation of my race— it becomes all mine;

Mine too the revenges of humanity-the wrongs of agesbaffled feuds and hatreds;

Utter defeat upon me weighs—all lost! the foe victorious! (Yet 'mid the ruins Pride colossal stands, unshaken to the last;

Endurance, resolution, to the last.)

8.

Now, trumpeter! for thy close,

Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet;

Sing to my soul-renew its languishing faith and hope; Rouse up my slow belief-give me some vision of the future; Give me, for once, its prophecy and joy.

O glad, exulting, culminating song!

A vigour more than earth's is in thy notes!

Marches of victory-man disenthrall'd-the conqueror at last!

Hymns to the universal God, from universal Man-all joy! A reborn race appears-a perfect World, all joy!

Women and Men, in wisdom, innocence, and health,-all joy!

Riotous, laughing bacchanals, fill'd with joy!

War, sorrow, suffering gone the rank earth purged— nothing but joy left!

The ocean fill'd with joy-the atmosphere all joy!

Joy! Joy! in freedom, worship, love! Joy in the ecstasy

of life!

Enough to merely be! Enough to breathe!

Joy! Joy! all over Joy!

BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.*

MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of 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.

Glory! glory, hallelujah!

Glory! glory! glory, hallelujah!
Glory glory, hallelujah!

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.

Glory! glory, hallelujah!

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnish'd 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 nis heel!

Since God is marching on..

Glory! glory, hallelujah!

He hath 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.

Glory! glory, hallelujah !———————

* See Note 24.

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.

Glory! glory, hallelujah!

| SHERIDAN AT CEDAR CREEK.

SHOE the steed with silver

That bore him to the fray,

When he heard the guns at dawning

Miles away;

When he heard them calling, calling

Mount! nor stay;

Quick, or all is lost;

They've surprised and storm'd the post,
They push your routed host;-

Gallop! retrieve the day!

House the horse in ermine—

For the foam-flake blew
White through the red October;
He thunder'd into view;
They cheer'd him in the looming,
Horseman and horse they knew.
The turn of the tide began,
The rally of bugles ran,

He swung his hat in the van;

The electric hoof-spark flew.

Wreathe the steed and lead him-
For the charge he led

Touch'd and turn'd the cypress

Into amaranths for the head

Of Philip, king of riders,

Who raised them from the dead.
The camp (at dawning lost)
By eve recover'd-forced-
Rang with laughter of the host
At belated Early fled.

Shroud the horse in sable

For the mounds they heap!
There is firing in the Valley,
And yet no strife they keep;
It is the parting volley,
It is the pathos deep.

There is glory for the brave
Who lead, and nobly save,

But no knowledge in the grave
Where the nameless followers sleep.

SKIMMING lightly, wheeling still,
The swallows fly low
O'er the field in clouded days,
The forest-field of Shiloh-
Over the field where April rain
Solaced the parch'd ones stretch'd in pain,
Through the pauses of night-
That follow'd the Sunday fight

Around the church of Shiloh,—
The church so lone, the log-built one,
That echo'd to many a parting groan
And natural prayer

Of dying foemen mingled there-
Foemen at morn, but friends at eve—
Fame or country least their care:
(What like a bullet can undeceive!)
But now they lie low,

While over them the swallows skim,
And all is hush'd at Shiloh.

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

Born in New York City 1819

LET them go!-they are brave, I know,-
But a berth like this, why, it suits me best;
I can't carry back the Old Colours to-day,
We've come together a long rough way,—
Here's as good a spot as any to rest.

No look, I reckon, to hold them long;
So here, in the turf, with my bayonet,
To dig for a bit, and plant them strong-
(Look out for the point—we may want it yet!)
Dry work!-but the old canteen holds fast
A few drops of water-not over-fresh,—
So, for a drink!-it may be the last,-
My respects to you, Mr. Secesh!

No great show for the snakes to sight;

Our boys keep 'em busy yet, by the powers!-
Hark, what a row going on, to the right!
Better luck there, I hope, than ours.

Half an hour!(and you'd swear 'twas three) —
Here by the bully old staff I've sat,—
Long enough, as it seems to me,

To lose as many lives as a cat.

Now and then, they sputter away,-
A puff and a crack, and I hear the ball.
Mighty poor shooting, I should say,-
Not bad fellows, may be, after all.

My chance, of course, isn't worth a dime

But I thought 'twould be over, sudden and quick

Well, since it seems that we're not on time,

Here's for a touch of the Kilikinick.