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LOYAL AMERICA.

THE FIRST APPEAL FOR A NATIONAL LOAN.

SEPTEMBER 2d, '61.

AMERICA dear Native Land,

I love thee tenderly and true;
My heart clings to thy verdant strand,
And pines without thy sky of blue;
Thy hills and vales, and woods and brakes,
Thy falls and rivers, springs and lakes,
Within my heart pure rapture wakes,
And life with new-born joys endue!
Thou art the work of God's own hand,
Sweet home of peace and rest,
I love thee, oh, my Native Land,
Of all the world the best !

America! dear Native Clime,
My very soul exults in thee,
When I peruse the Book of Time,
And trace therein thy history;
The deeds of sire and of son,
The battles fought, the triumphs won,
The power gained, ere thou had'st run
That round of time-one century!
Which is the work of God's own hand,
Sweet home of peace and rest;
I love thee, oh, my Native Land,
Of all the world the best!

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America! dear Natal Place,

Thy glory is my greatest pride;
Thy arm enwraps the human race,
And o'er its destinies preside;

Where e'er man's vent'rous foot may wend,
There thine influence doth extend,
And with the foes of Right contend,
And Despots galling chain divide!
Such is the work of God's own hand,
Sweet home of peace and rest,

I love thee, oh! my Native Land,
Of all the world the best!

America! dear Place of Birth,
I turn from all the world to thee,
There is no other spot on earth,

Where feels my soul that it is free;
Thy beauty is my heart's delight,
Thy power is my manhood's might,
Thy glory is the whole world's light,
A Nation's hallow'd Trinity!

All is the work of God's own hand,
Sweet home of peace and rest;
I love thee, oh, my Native Land,
Of all the world the best.

J. HENRY HAYWARD

THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE.

BATTLE OF CORNIFEX FERRY, VA.,

SEPTEMBER 10TH, '61.

AFAR upon the battle-plain,

The dewy eve descended,
Where our young Henry dying lay,
Amid the dead untended.
The pulse of life was ebbing fast,
His eyes were dim already,
His feeble voice was faint and low,
His gory hand unsteady!

"Oh God!" the dying soldier cried,

"If she were only here-"

When "Henry! Henry," through the gloom,

Rang in his dying ear.

Then fondly clasped within her arms,

She kissed his marble brow,

He only smiled-his spirit passed,

For death had claimed him now!

"Awake! awake! my own beloved!”
The frantic maiden cried;

Then sorrowing sunk upon his corpse,
And ere the morn she died!
Now calmly sleeping on that plain,
They've laid them side by side;
Secure from all the storms of life,

The soldier and his bride!

W. A. DEVON.

THE BIVOUAC.

SKIRMISH AT LEWINSVILLE, VA.,
SEPTEMBER 11TH, '61.

THE camp is all quiet-my comrades are sleeping-
They dream of their homes, and loved ones dear,
The slow rising moon, with its light gently creeping,
Shows eyelids now wet with the slow falling tear.

There lays a young soldier-in years but a boy-
His musket beside him-cold pillow of steel-
The weapon to him is a pride and a joy,

As he dreams to the traitor a death it will deal.

And he dreams, too, of hearts that anxiously fear
Each bulletin sad with its grim battle story,
May tell that he, whom they all love so dear,
Is in death lying low in his youth-yet in glory.

A stern visaged man is lying near by—

Fitfully sleeping, and fitfully dreaming-
His country he loves-for that country he'll die-
His brow this reveals in the moonlight's gleaming.

Thus resting in groups, on this now peaceful spot,
Lie father and brother-the lover, the son,
To-morrow to waken 'midst rattling of shot,

The shrieks of the wounded, and war of the gun.

When the next risen sun shall have sunk in the West,
And the next evening stars shine o'er us on high,
Those sleeping here now, will take their last rest
'Neath the sod where they fight but to gallantly di

ANONYMOU

WITH THE SLAIN.

BATTLE OF ELK WATER, VA.,

SEPTEMBER 11TH, '61.

IN homes of affluence and wealth,
'Mid joy and gayety,
Where live the poor and lowly,
In haunts of misery.

In city, town and village,

On mountain hill and dale,
Where sunshine is, or nature blooms,
Is heard the low sad wail.

The young wife anxiously watches,

From morn 'till close of day,

Praying and weeping the whole night long,

For a husband far away.

In vain she sobs his dear loved name,

Tho' hope hath nearly fled,

But still she weeps, and hopes and sighs,
Nor dreams that he is dead.

The mother thinks of her only boy,
Her joy, her hope, and pride,

And pictures scenes of happiness,

Her darling by her side.

But far away from friends and home,
On the dreaded battle plain,
Regardless of all care and strife,
He numbers with the slain.

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