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Poetical Pen-pictures of the War: Selected from Our Union Poets
John Henry Hayward
Vista completa - 1863
arms banner battle bless blood brave breast breath bright brother brow cause cheer clouds comes comrades dark dead dear death deep dream drum dying earth eyes face fall fame father fear fell field fight fire flag Freedom friends give gleaming glory grave grow hand head hear heard heart Heaven hero hope hour kiss land leave light lips live look meet morning mother neath never night noble o'er once pain passed patriot peace plain pray prayer rebel rest round seemed silent slain sleep smile soldier soon soul sound stand stars strife sweet sword tears tell thee thou thought traitors true Union victory voice waiting watch wave weep wounded young
Página 68 - For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
Página 250 - 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.
Página 230 - 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.
Página 36 - The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade.
Página 186 - For their mother — may Heaven defend her! The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night when the love yet unspoken Leaped up to his lips — when...
Página 35 - THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms. Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies!
Página 36 - Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals or forts: The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!
Página 283 - Wake in our breasts the living fires. The holy faith that warmed our sires ; Thy hand hath made our Nation free ; To die for her is serving Thee.
Página 185 - Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack — his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep — For their mother — may Heaven defend her...