Over Barbara Frietchie's grave Peace and order and beauty draw And ever the stars above look down GENTLY! GENTLY! Among the wounded was a young soldier whose limbs were fearfully shattered. Though evidently in intense pain, he uttered no cry; but, as the carriers raised the "stretcher" he was on, he whispered, "Gently! gently!" THOUGH he neither sighs nor groans, Death is busy with his bones: Bear him o'er the jutting stones Gently! gently! Sisters, faithful to your vow, Swathe his limbs and cool his brow: Peace! his soul is passing now Gently! gently! He has fallen in the strife! Tell it to his widowed wife, And to her who gave him life, Gently! gently! Loudly praise the brave who gem And their faults-oh, speak of them Gently! gently! LANDER. BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. CLOSE his bleak eyes-they shall no more (His to the last, for so he would have died!) Take him, New England, now his work is done. Ice where he liked not; where he loved, all fire. Take him, New England, gently. Other days, So, on New England's bosom, let him lie, NOT YET. BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. O COUNTRY, marvel to the earth! And we who wear thy glorious name, Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo! And they who founded, in our land, Knit they the gentle ties which long Our humming marts, our iron ways, Our wind-tossed woods on mountain crest, The hoarse Atlantic, with his bays, The calm, broad Ocean of the West, And Mississippi's torrent flow, And loud Niagara, answer, No! Not yet the hour is nigh, when they For now, behold the arm that gave That mighty arm which none can stay,— In the entire range of loyal song--born to us from the patriotism in the poet heart-there is scarce one so soulstirring, or one that will arrest the attention of the general reader, so much as this by DURIVAGE. THE CAVALRY CHARGE. BY FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE. WITH bray of the trumpet The cavalry come. Sharp clank the steel scabbards, The bridle-chains ring, And foam from red nostrils The wild chargers fling. Tramp! tramp! o'er the green sward That quivers below, Scarce held by the curb-bit The fierce horses go! One hand on the sabre, And swift is their rush As the wild torrents flow, When it pours from the crag On the valley below. "Charge!" thunders the leader Like shaft from the bow Are dashed on the square. Resistless and reckless Of aught may betide, Like demons, not mortals, The wild troopers ride. |