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OUR WOUNDED.

In Thy name and at Thy word.
May our spirits clearly see
Thee, through all that is to be,
In defeat or victory.

OUR WOUNDED.

BY C. K. TUCKERMAN.

S loftier rise the ocean's heaving crests,

AS

Ere they sink, tempest-driven, on the strand; So do these hearts and freedom-beating breasts, Sublimed by suffering, fall upon our land.

Wounded! O sweet-lipped word! for on the page Of this strange history, all these scars shall be The hieroglyphics of a valiant age,

Deep writ in Freedom's blood-red mystery.

What though your fate sharp agony reveals!
What though the mark of brothers' blows you

bear!

The breath of your oppression upward steals,
Like incense from crushed spices into air.

Freedom lies listening, nor as yet averts

The battle horrors of these months' slow length;

"AT EVENING TIME" ETC.

But as she listens, silently she girts

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More close, more firm, the armor of her strength.

Then deem them not as lost, these bitter days,
Nor those which yet in anguish must be spent
Far from loved skies and home's peace-moving

ways,

For these are not the losses you lament.

It is the glory that your country bore

Which you would rescue from a living grave; It is the unity that once she wore

Which your true hearts are yearning still to save.

Despair not it is written! Though the eye,
Red with its watching, can no future scan,
The glow of triumph yet shall flush the sky,
And God redeem the ruin made by man.

"AT EVENING TIME IT SHALL BE LIGHT."

UR Nation's Sun was clouded o'er

OUR

When erst he rose at morn;

But soon those beams were hid no more,

Afar the clouds were borne.

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TRUMPET SONG.

We for awhile enjoyed his rays,
In all their noontide power;
Now once again is hid that blaze

In this our darkest hour.

But Freedom's sky shall yet be bright:
"At Evening time it shall be light."

The Sun of Liberty shall ne'er

In clouds and darkness set;

Her sons are brave, - they know no fear,
And God is with us yet.
We know whatever may betide,

Be it for good or ill,

It is in mercy He doth chide,

His arm is pow'rful still.

Then strike! for God and for the Right:

"At Evening time it shall be light."

C. F.

THE

TRUMPET SONG.

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

HE battle-drum's loud rattle is rending the air,
The troopers all are mounted, their sabres are

bare;

TRUMPET SONG.

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The guns are unlimbered, the bayonets shine,
Hark! hark! 't is the trumpet-call! wheel into line!
Ta ra! ta ta ta!

Trum trum, tra ra ra ra !

Beat drums and blow trumpets!
Hurrah, boys, hurrah!

March onward, soldiers, onward, the strife is begun, Loud bellowing rolls the boom of the black-throated

gun;

The rifles are cracking, the torn banners toss,
The sabres are clashing, the bayonets cross.
Ta ra, etc.

Down with the leaguing liars, the traitors to their trust,

Who trampled the fair charter of Freedom in

The field is our own, and the battle is won !

Ta ra, etc.

God save our mighty people and prosper our

cause!

We're fighting for our nation, our land, and our

laws!

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PUT IT THROUGH.

Though tyrants may hate us, their threats we defy,
And drum-beat and trumpet shall peal our reply!
Ta ra! ta ta ta!

Beat drums and blow trumpets!
Trum trum, tra ra ra ra !
Hurrah, boys, hurrah !

PUT IT THROUGH.

COME Freemen of the land,

Come meet the last demand!
Here's a piece of work in hand:
Put it through!

Here's a log across the way,
We have stumbled on all day,
Here's a ploughshare in the clay :
Put it through!

Here's a country that's half free,
And it waits for you and me,

To say what it's fate shall be:
Put it through!