THE RISING OF THE NORTH.

J. N. M.

HIGH On the mountains

A new day is dawning;
Over the eastern hills
Breaks the glad morning.

Up from the valleys
Glad eyes are turning
Full of the holy fires

In the heart burning.

Long was the night-watch,

Bitter with woe;

Dim burned the altar-fires,—

Faintly and low.

Now, from the orient,
Leaps the new day,
Chasing the shadows

Of midnight away.

Freedom has risen,

And men shall once more

Gird on the armor

Their forefathers wore.

And dare to do battle

For Justice and Right;
Die as their fathers died,-

Facing the fight.

Like some old organ-peal,
Solemn and grand,
The anthem of Freedom
Sweeps through the land.

The hand of a master

Touches the keys,

And the soul-stirring symphony

Swells on the breeze.

Out of the clouded sky
A new light is breaking;
From the deep sleep of guilt
The nation is waking.

High on the mountains

The new day is dawning;

Soon in the valleys

Shall break the glad morning.

TWILIGHT ON SUMTER.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

STILL and dark along the sea
Sumter lay;

A light was overhead,

As from burning cities shed,

And the clouds were battle-red

Far away!

Not a solitary gun

Left to tell the fort had won
Or lost the day!

Nothing but the tattered rag

Of the drooping rebel flag.

And the sea-birds screaming round it in their play!

How it woke one April morn
Fame shall tell;

As from Moultrie, close at hand,
And the batteries on the land,

Round its faint but fearless band
Shot and shell

Raining hid the doubtful light:
But they fought the hopeless fight
Long and well.

(Theirs the glory, ours the shame!)
Till the walls were wrapt in flame,

Then our flag was proudly struck, and Sumter fell!

Now-O look at Sumter now,

In the gloom:

Mark its scarred and shattered walls,

(Hark! the ruined rampart falls!)

There is a justice that appalls

In its doom:

For this blasted spot of earth
Where rebellion had its birth,
Is its tomb:

And when Sumter sinks at last

From the heavens, that shrink aghast,

Hell will rise in grim derision, and make room.

Is there not something grand and soul-stirring in these stately and noble lines, from the inspired pen of MRS. DR. HOWE?

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.

BY MRS. JULIA WARD HOWE.

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.

I have seen him in the watchfires of a hundred circling

camps;

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and

damps;

I have read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring

lamps:

His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished 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; Oh! 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.

MARCH.

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

WITH rushing winds and gloomy skies
The dark and stubborn Winter dies;
Far-off, unseen, Spring faintly cries,
Bidding her earliest child arise:
March!

By streams still held in icy snare,
On Southern hill-sides, melting bare,
O'er fields that motley colors wear,
That summons fills the changeful air:
March!

What though conflicting seasons make
Thy days their field, they woo or shake
The sleeping lids of Life awake,

And Hope is stronger for thy sake:

March!

Then from thy mountains, ribbed with snow,

Once more thy rousing bugle blow,

And East and West, and to and fro,

Proclaim thy coming to the foe:

March!

Say to the picket, chilled and numb,
Say to the camp's impatient hum,
Say to the trumpet and the drum :
Lift up your hearts, I come, I come!

March!

Cry to the waiting hosts that stray
On sandy sea-sides far away,

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