So cried I with clenched hands and passionate pain, Thinking of dear ones by Potomac's side;

Again the loon laughed mocking, and again

The echoes bayed far down the night and died,
While waking I recalled my wandering brain.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.

Nov., 1861.

MINE

This war-song was written to the tune of "John Brown's Body," —a tune to which many thousands of Volunteers were marching to the front.

INE 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 watch-fires of a hundred circ

ling camps;

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews

and damps;

I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flar

ing lamps.

ΙΟ

His day is marching on.

145

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 judg

ment-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.

JULIA WARD HOWE.

1861.

AT PORT ROYAL.

HE tent-lights glimmer on the land,

THE

The ship-lights on the sea;

The night-wind smooths with drifting sand

Our track on lone Tybee.

At last our grating keels outslide,

Our good boats forward swing;

And while we ride the land-locked tide,

Our negroes row and sing.

For dear the bondman holds his gifts

Of music and of song:

The gold that kindly Nature sifts

Among his sands of wrong;

The power to make his toiling days
And poor home-comforts please;

The quaint relief of mirth that plays
With sorrow's minor keys.

Another glow than sunset's fire

Has filled the West with light, Where field and garner, barn and byre, Are blazing through the night.

The land is wild with fear and hate,
The rout runs mad and fast;

From hand to hand, from gate to gate,
The flaming brand is passed.

The lurid glow falls strong across
Dark faces broad with smiles;
Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss
That fire yon blazing piles.

With oar-strokes timing to their song,

They weave in simple lays

The pathos of remembered wrong,

The hope of better days, –