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Ambition soon the ashen fruit shall taste,

Of impious wrongs which spring from reckless pride, While Freedom's morn shall light the desert-waste Of minds, which, long in night, the day denied. For in this struggle, fierce and long, God is with us, and we are strong— To Him alone the glory.

He calls us now to vict'ry on to press,

Nor doubt the morning star which lights the way— His voice is heard in every patriot's breast, "Awake! the night is spent; behold the day!" Us shall He show, e'en in death's night, The golden glow of Freedom's dawning light. To Him, our country's God, the glory.

T. H. KORNER.

THE SILENT ANVIL.

AFTER THE BATTLE OF SOMERSVILLE, VA.
AUGUST 26TH, '61.

I CREPT in the lane at midnight-
The lane so silent and dead !—

A stagnant calm in the world below,
And a stagnant calm o'er head;
And Venus was wrapt in a jaundice mist,
And Mars in his flaming red.

I crept to the door of the smithy,

And peered through the heavy gloom―
The forge was cold and in ashes,

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And silent the anvil's boom;
And the sledges were laid aside for aye,
And sooty the furnace-flume.

And I thought how the early morning,
When it flashed on the window-pane,
And burned with its pleasant fever
The leaves of the summer lane-
It should bring the little children.
To look at the forge again.

And I pictured their wandering glances,
And their silence of sharp dismay,

When they missed the smith at the anvil-block,
And the sound of the sledge's play;

And the hum of the flame in the chimney cold, And the pondrous bellow's sway.

And I thought how the herdsmen round about Would miss, from the evening sky,

The distant clank of the forgeman's blow,

The light and the crimson dye

That blazed and burned from the blackened flume, Like a beacon raised on high.

And I said: "O forgeman stout of limb,

Of muscle firm and true,

No more shall your sledges shape the plow,
Or the will of the farmer do.

There is heavier work for heart and hand-
There is heavier work for you.

"For, with storms and battle the air is filled,
And bared is the foeman's steel;

And crash on crash, from the cannon's mouth,
Make the charging squadrons reel;

And the arts of peace are crushed and ground 'Neath Havoc's iron heel."

JEREMY BLANC.

GOD'S BLESSINGS ON THEM,

CAPTURE OF FORTS HATTERAS AND CLARK, N. C.
AUGUST 29TH, '61.

God bless the brave ones! in our dearth,
Their lives shall have a trailing glory;
And round the poor man's homely hearth
We'll proudly tell their suffering story.

All savior-souls have sacrificed,

With nought but noble faith for guerdon, And ere the world hath crowned the Christ, The man to death hath borne the burden!

The savage broke the glass that brought
The heavens nearer, saith the legend;
Even so the bigots welcomed aught

That makes our visions starrier regioned.

They lay their corner stones in dark,

Deep waters, who uphold in beauty, On earths old heart their triumphs are, That crown with glory lives of duty.'

And meekly still the martyrs go

To keep with pain their solemn bridal!
And still they walk the fire who bow
Not down to worship Custom's idol.

The heart! the rude dust, dark to-day,
Soars a new lighted sphere to-morrow:
And wings of splendor burst the clay
That clasps us in death's fruitful furrow.

GERALD MASSEY.

THE WHETTING OF THE SCYTHES.

ATTACK ON LEXINGTON, MO.
AUGUST 29TH, '61.

THE dew laughs on the blossom'd grass,
Like diamonds gem the flow'rs-

And over all the soft winds pass

All fresh from Night's cool bow'rs, While sharp and clear, upon the ear, Across the field, we list to hear

The whetting of the scythes!

The laugh and song may float along,
From festive heart and lip,

Where the belles and beaux in joyous throng

The cup of pleasure sip

But let me hear upon the air

A sweeter sound, more full of cheer—
The whetting of the scythes!

Now, soldiers, mow the rebels down

With blades of tempered steelMake, make our Union's power known, Let them its vengeance feel

Then home once more from tented plain,

You'll haste to hear in peace again

The whetting of the scythes!

ANONYMOUS.

MY MINIE RIFLE.

AT THE FIGHT AT BALL'S CROSS ROADS, va

AUGUST 30TH, '61.

THE finest friend I ever knew,

And one with whom I dare not trifle,
Who in all danger sees me through,
Whose aim is ever good and true,
Is my sweet Minie Rifle.

She gently rests upon my arm,
Is always ready, always willing;
And though, in general, somewhat calm,
Wakes up, upon the first alarm,

To show she can be killing.

And she is very fair to see,

The most fastidious fancy suiting;
Her locks are bright as they can be,
And that her sight is good to me
Is just as sure as shooting.

Though used to many a firey spark,
She's never careless in her pleasure;
She always aims to hit the mark,
And when her voice the Sothrons hark,
They find she's no Secesher.

The heaviest load seems not to weigh
Upon her more than 'twer a trifle;
She's highly polished; and I'd pray,
Were I bereft of friend this day,
"Oh! leave my Minie Rifle!"

ANONYMOUS.

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