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upon oar American prejudices! The head of the great Catholic Church, surrounded by the ripest scholars of the age, listening to the eloquence"—of whom? —" of the despised negro; and thereby illustrating to the world "—what ? — " thereby illustrating to the world the common bond of brotherhood which binds the human race." [Roars of laughter.]

Mr. Speaker, I appeal to the House if it does not appear that the author of that pamphlet must have been corrupted by reading the work of my friend from Ohio.

But the gentleman goes on to say: "I confess that, at first, it seemed to me a sort of theatrical mummery, not being familiar with such admixtures of society." That was the first impression of my young and festive friend from Ohio, as he wandered through the gilded corridors of St. Peter's. [Laughter.] "But," says he, "on reflection, I discerned in it the same influence which, during the dark ages, conferred such inestimas ble blessings on mankind. History records that from the time of the revival of letters the influence of the Church of Rome had been generally favorable to science, to civilization, and to good government. Why?" Why, asks my friend from Ohio, is the Church of Rome so favorable to science, to civilization, and to good government? Let the gentleman answer: "Because her system held then, as it holds now, all distinctions of caste as odious." [Great laughter.] "She regards no man—bond or free, white or black—as disqualified for the priesthood. This doctrine has, as Macaulay develops in his introductory chapters to his English history, mitigated many of the worst evils of society; for where race tyrannized over race, or baron over villein, Catholicism came between them and created an aristocracy altogether independent of race or feudalism, compelling even the hereditary master to kneel before the spiritual tribunal of the hereditary bondsman. The childhood of Europe was passed under the guardianship of priestly teachers, who taught, as the scene in the Sistine Chapel of an Eihiop addressing the proud rulers of Catholic Christendom teaches, that no distinction is regarded at Rome save that which divides the priest from the people.

"The sermon of the Abyssinian"—that is, of this colored person, this Roman citizen of "African descent"— "in beautiful print, was distributed at the door. I bring one home as a trophy and as a souvenir of a great truth which Americans are prone to deny or contemn." [Laughter.]

Now, I ask my friend from Ohio if he has still got that trophy and souvenir to bring into this Hall?

A Stirring Appeal To The Women.—From copies of Savannah and Columbus (Ga.) papers is taken the following:

TO THE WOVEN OP GEORGIA.

Atlanta, Feb. 5, 1864.—A report has been put in circulation in various portions of the State, that the socks knit by the ladies of Georgia for this department have been sold by me to the troops on the field. Without entering into the details of this vile and malicious report, I hereby pronounce the whole tale to be a malicious Falskhood I I deny, and challenge the world for proof to the contrary, that there has ever been a sock told by this department to a soldier of the confederate army since my first appeal to the women of Georgia to knit for their destitute defenders. I hereby bind myself to present One Thocsand

Dollars to any person—citizen or soldier—who will come forward and prove that he ever bought a sock from this department that was either knit by the ladies or purchased for issue to said troops.

This report has been invented, on the one hand, by the enemies of our noble boys, who rejoice in their sufferings, and are delighted when they suspend the efforts of our noble women in their behalf; on the other hand, by servile opponents of this department, who forget that in venting their unprovoked spite upon us, they are causing the troops of their State to march over frozen ground and the drifting snow with uncovered and bleeding feet

Women of Georgia! again I appeal to you. This time I call upon you to frown down these vile falsehoods. Demand of them who peddle (he tale, the evidence I call for above. Until that testimony is produced, I implore you, stay not your efforts. I assure you, in the name of all that is holy and noble— on the honor of a man and an officer—that myself or any of my assistants have never sold a pair of socks that were knit by you. Every pair has been issued to the destitute troops as a gift, as about seventeen thousand gallant sons of the Empire State will gladly bear testimony.

Daughters of Georgia, I still need socks. Requisitions for them are daily pouring in upon me. I still have yarn to furnish you. I earnestly desire to secure a pair of socks for every barefooted soldier from Georgia. You are my only reliance. Past experience teaches me I will not appeal to you in vain.

Ira R. Foster, Quartermaster-General of Georgia.

COLONEL LEWIS BENEDICT.

BT ALFRED B. STREET.

[The following lines on the death or Colonel Lewie Benedict, who fell while leading Ms brigade at the battle or Pleasant Hill, Louisiana, April 9, 1864, were recited hy James E. Murdoch, before the New-York Legislature, on the second of February, 1&6&.}

We laid him in his last and patriot rest;

Dark Death but couched him on Fame's living breast.

We twine the sorrowing cypress o'er his grave,

And let the star-bright banner loftier wave

At mention of his deeds! In manhood's prime,

Blossoms the pinions waved by smiling Time,

He left life's warbling bowers for duty's path,

Where the fierce war-storm flashed its reddest wrath;

Path proud, though rough; outrang the trumpet's

blast: "To arms, to arms! down to the dust iB east The flag, the dear old flag, by treason's hand!" And the deep thundering sound rolled ouward through

the land.

In the quick throngs of fiery life that rushed
To smite for native land till wrong was crushed
And right stood planted firm upon its rock,
None rose more glad, none bore the battle shock
More brave. At blood-stained Williamsburgh he drew
First his good sword; his eagle daring flew
Into the storm so deep it wrapt him round;
But, scorning still to yield, he strove, till bound
Fast by the grasp of the admiring foe,
Struggling though in the toil, still striking blow on
blow.

Pent in close prison-walls long, long black hours,
Yet the strong, skyward-pinioned spirit cowers

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To naught; that steel-nerved will the loftier towers,

Treading the painful thorns like pleasant flowers.

Free once again, war's trumpet-clangors ring

The warrior to the birthplace of the Spring.

Where the stern Mississippi sea-like sweeps,

To summer flowers, pine cones of wintry steeps,

Into Death's eyes again he fixed his gaze.

Lo '. where Port Hudson's deadly batteries blaze,

Whose that tall form that towers when all lie low,

Brow to the sun and bosom to the foe?

Brow to the sun, his brave sword in his hand,

Pointing "There—up and onward, patriot band!"

Again! red batteries' hurling awful hail

Like the fierce sleet that loads the thundering gale.

Ranks crushed beneath showered shot and shell, like

grain
By that sinic sleet, across the heaped-up plain
Full in the fort's hot, gaping hell, he leads
His stormers; slaughter drives his flashing steeds
Trampling broad lanes amid the serried might;
But on, bathed deep in battle's awful light,
On that tall form with lightnings all around;
Firm his proud step along the streaming ground,
Quaking withicannon-thunders; up his tread,
lTp to the parapet, above his head
The starry flag borne by a hand that falls,
Death-struck; he grasps the flag—the rebel walls
See the waved stars in that strong clutch, till back
The ebbing conflict drags him in ita track.

Once more in other scenes he meets the foe.
O'ermatched, our columns stagger to their blow;
Vain on their squares bold Emory's files are hurled j
Backward the dashing cataract is whirled
Splintered to spray. 0 banner of the skies!
Flag of the rising constellatious, dyes
Of dawn not sunset! shalt thou trail in dust?
Shall blind, dead darkness hide our blazing trust*
On, braves! but no — they pause — they reel — they

break!
Now like some towering crag no storm can shake,
Like some tall pine that soara when all the wood
Bows to the winds—some rock amid the flood,
Our hero stands I he forms each tottering square.
Through them the blazing thunderbolts may tear,
But vain: the bulwark stands, a living wall,
Between the foeman and that banner's fall.

Then, the dread last—0 woful, woful day!
Ah I the dimmed glory of that trophied fray!
Ah ! the fell shadow of that triumph's ray!
Hurling the foeman's might back, back, at last
Onward he sweeps—on, on, as sweeps the blast!
On through the keen, red, hissing air—ah! woe!
That ruthless fate should deal such cruel blow!
On, through the keen, red, hurtling air—but see
That form—it reels—it sinks! that heart, so free
To dare the battle-tempest's direst might,
Winged with the quick, tierce lightning of the fight,
And soaring through the victory's gladdening light,
Up to untroubled realms, hath passed in instant flight!
Death, where he fell, in roses red inurned*
His form—war's hue and love's—and they were turned
To laurels at the touch, and one green twine
From them the land hath wrought to deck the hero's
shrine.

He fell in conflict's fiercest, wildest flame;
And now his loved and laurelled ashes claim

* Colonel Benedict fell literally on a bed of crirasou the wild Louisiana rose.

Vol. VIII.—Poetry 4

Our heartfelt sorrow! for among the brave,

None braver; and when battle left his eye,

None softer! Let the stricken nation sigh

For such as he who perish by the way,

While up on crimson feet she toils to greet the day.

Ah! the bright hour he came, though weak and low
With prison languors! Cheerily on were borne
The merry clang of the bells. Ciang, clang, they rang!
Joy in our hearts in jocund music sprang!
And all shone pleasureful. One long, long toll,
One long, deep, lingering sound that tells the goal
Of some spent life, then moans along the air
As sorrowing hands our hero's ashes bear
To lie in honored state. We saw his form
Sprinkled with blossoms breathing fresh and warm;
That form so still, so peaceful to our gaze,
That soared so grand amid the battle's blaze,
Scorning the shrieking shell, the whizzing ball,,
Sleeping so still beneath his warrior-pall!

We bore him to his sylvan home; there flowers
Should o'er him smile; but chief, the oak that towers
Unbent by blasts, ami breaks but to the dart
Of the red bolt, from that heroic heart
Should spring; for, 'mid his kindly graces soared
A firm-knit will—a purpose strong that warred
In deep disdain of Fortune's fitful breath,
And only bowed its rock-clutched strength to Death.
There shall he lie. When our new-kindled sun
Shall dawn, his first rejoicing rays shall run
In gold o'er graves like his—Fame's gold—that Time
Shall brighten—and his monument sublime,
Oh! seek it not in stone, but in piled hearts
That loved him! The carved marble soon departs,
But the heart's token, sent through ages down,
Warm in its living might, mocks Tiine'o most wither-
ing frown.

Blessed is he who suffers,* and we know
A solemn joy, that one whose manhood's glow
Faded so soon, should die to mark how grand
Above all fleeting life, to die for Native Land.

OUR FLAG IN '64.

BT D. B. DUFFIELD.

Fling, fling our banner out,
With loyal song and shout,
O'er every home and hill.
By each deep valley's mill,
And let its heaven-lit beam
Round every hearth-stone gleam,
And fill the passing hour—
This pregnant, fateful hour—
With all its stirring voices,
And the thunder of its power.

The foe is striking hard;
But in the castle-yard
Uprise fresh traitor bands
To snatch from out our hands,
From fortress and from sea,
This banner of the free,
To give it coward flight,
That Anarchy's dark night,

With all its muttering thunders,
May swallow up its light.

* Bentdictits qui patitur. Motto of the Benedict family*

Ay! when our soldiers brave, On battle-field and wave, Sprang forth with deadly stroke Through battle's blazing smoke, Our standard to uphold, And save its every fold, These home-born traitors cry, "God grant no victory /"

Though scores of gallant heroes Round the old flag bravely die.

Rise, then, each loyal man,
Your home-horizon scan,
And plant the nation's flag
On hill-side and on crag;
And let your swelling soul
In earnest tones outroll
That brave resolve of old,
When our fathers, true and bold,

Swore a fealty to the flag
Which never once grew cold.

The flag, the flag bends low,
For whirlwinds round it blow,
And wild, chaotic night
Is veiling it from sight;
So let us every one,
While yet the winds rage on,
Cling round the straining mast
And hold the banner fast,

Till stormy Treason's rage
Be safely overpast.

THE HYMN OF FREEDOM.

OCR FLAG SHALL STAT UHFURLED.*
BY J. F. WF.ISHAMPEL, JR.

All hail the land where Freedom dwells and lifts her

starry shield! Here gaze all nations, bond and free—this is their

battle-field! Humanity and Liberty throughout the struggling

world, Proclaim her cause their own, and cry, Our Flag shall stay unfurled!

Our Flag shall stay unfurled,
Our Flag shall stay unfurled!
Though Freedom's foes may plot her death,
Yet while a patriot holds his breath,
Our Flag shall stay unfurled!

What hands dare strike that hopeful Flag, for which

our fathers bled? Who mocks the wisdom of the past, the counsels of

the Dead? Shall Faction spoil our heritage? Nay, shout it to

the world— The progress of our race depends—Our Flag shall stay unfurled 1

Our Flag shall stay unfurled,
Our Flag shall stay unfurled!
Though Freedom's foes may plot her death,
Yet while a patriot holds his breath,
Our Flag shall stay unfurled!

• Written In 1S61. The authorities of Baltimore city had forbidden the display of the American ftai, but In many Instances It wa* kept afloat, till torn down by the police. After several week.-' of trouble and anxiety, the I'nion people prevailed, the rebel ensl.-rns were secreted or destroyed, and the beautiful Flasr of our Nation w;n thm^ out on the breeze from a thousand windows and spires all over the city.

Ilere God has smiled—here Peace has reigned—all

tongues have utterance here; Here Faith is free to choose her creed—no despot's

stake is near; Here reigns an empire without walls, a wonder to the

world: And shall this fabric be dissolved? Columbia's Flag be furled ♦

Our Flag shall stay unfurled,
Our Flag shall Stay unfurled!
Though Freedom's foes may plot her death,
Yet while a patriot holds his breath,
Our Flag shall stay unfurled I

Float on, thou emblem of the age—defence on land

and sea! 0 God of hosts! in humble faith, we trust our cause

to thee! Then traitor's plots and tyrant hordes against us may

lie hurled— Yet shall our Flag victorious wave, the hope of all the world!

Our Flag shall stay unfurled,
Our Flag shall stay unfurled!
Though Freedom's foes may plot her death,
Yet while a patriot holds his breath,
Our Flag shall stay unfurled!

TOE TATTEUED FLAGS.

FEBRUARY 22, 1S64.

Stirring music thrilled the air,
Brilliant banners fluttered there,
Pealed the bells and rolled the drum,
And the people cried: "They come!"
On they came with measured tramp—
Heroes proved in field and camp.
Banners waved more proudly then;
Cheered the children, cheered the men;
Beauty, lover of the brave,
Brightened with the smiles she gave;
While the sun, in golden jets,
Flowed along the bayonets,
As upon each laurel crown
Heaven had poured a bles/mg down.
All was stirring, grand, and gay,
But the pageant passed away
When, with proud and filling eye,
I saw the tattered flags go by I

Fancy then might faintly hear
Hosts advancing, battle cheer,
Sightless bullets whiz along—
Fit refrain for battle-song;
Cannon, with their sulphurous breath,
Hurling messages of death;
Whirring shot and screaming shell
Fluttering where in wrath they fell,
Opening graves—while purple rills
Scar the fields and streak the hills.
See the serried columns press—
Bold, defiant, merciless—
On the long and slender line
Where the starry banners shine;
With demoniac yells they come,
Fiercely drive their bayonets home,
And the arching heavens resound—
God! our men arc giving ground!
Shouts, and cries of wild despair,
Mingle in the murky air.

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IS THIS THE LAND OF WASHINGTON?

BY I. \. A. WOOD.

Is this the land of Washington,

For which our patriot-fathers bled,
Whose mighty strides to freedom shook

The continent beneath their tread?
Is the land of Knox and Green—

Of Marion, Stark, and mighty Wayne,
Who hurled the despot from our shores,

And dashed to earth his galling chain?
Were these our sires—are we the sons

Of men whose fame hath filled the earth?
And have we dwarfed and dwindled thus,

To mock the majesty of birth?
Arise 1 vc heroes of the past!

Where mould your bones by many a steep,
Behold the sons "that heir your fame—

Behold your progeny and weep!
Were such, with old Laconia's son,*
The men who fought at Bennington?

Is this the land of Washington,

That warmed the patriot's sanguine dreams,
Where Liberty made bright her shield,

And nursed her eaglets in its gleams?
Where Bunker Hill and Monmouth field

Shot terror to the oppressor's soul,
And wrote, with many a flying pen,

Their protests on a bloody scroll?
And shall hour-born oppression spurn

These creeds to alien tyrants taught,
And Freedom's beauteous limbs enthrall,

Or bind the lightning of her thought?
Shall her unwilling hands be made

To forge the insignia of her shame;
Her tongue to speak, her pen to write,

A flaming falsehood on her fame?
Say, ye who stood on Trenton's height,
Shall thus Columbia's freemen write?

No! never while one spark remains

Unquenched of freedom's altar-fires,
Which still may shoot aloft in flame,

Fanned by the memory of our sires;
No! not till every patriot's blood

Is poured upon the sword to rust,
And Liberty, without her shield,

Trails her bright garments in the dust;
Not till the mother fails to teach

Her offspring, with a zeal divine,
The foeman's rights, baptized in blood,

At Bunker Hill and Brandywine;

iMConia'K Sm— In the early days of the discovery and ■ettlement of New-Ilarapshire, It wns called Luaonia. At the famous battle, or battles, of Beimlnjrton (for two w.;rc fbURht on the Lime day and on the same field) General Stark, of NewHampshire, commanded.

And not till this, and not till then,

Shall dawn that black and hateful hour

That dooms the patriot's tongue and pen
To bide the weight of bigot power;

And then to shame our father's graves,

We shall deserve the brand of slaves.

OwEA'SDORO, KY., 1S<H.

TnE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATHA.

A LEGEND OF TUB " RED, WRITE, AND BLOB."
A. D. 1154—lSW.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

A strong and mighty angel,

Calm, terrible, and bright,
The cross in blended red and blue

Upon his mantle white!

Two captives by him kneeling,

Each on his broken chain,
Sang praise to God who raiseth

The dead to life again!

Dropping his cross-wrought mantle, "Wear this," the angel said; "Take thou, 0 Freedom's priest! its sign— The white, the blue, and red!"

Then rose up John De Maths

In the strength the Lord Christ gave, . And begged through all the laud of France The ransom of the slave.

The gates of tower and castle

Before him open flew,
The drawbridge at his coming fell,

The door-bolt backward drew.

For all men owned his errand,

And paid his righteous tax;
And the hearts of lord and peasant

Were in his hands as wax.

At last, outbound from Tunis,
His bark her anchor weighed,

Freighted with seven score Christian souls
Whose ransom he had paid.

But, torn by Paynim hatred,

Her sails in tatters hung;
And oti the wild waves rudderless,

A shattered hulk she swung.

"God save us !" cried the captain,
"For naught can man avail:
Oh ! woe betide the ship that lacks
Her rudder and her sail!

"Behind us are the Moormen;
At sea we sink or strand:
There's death upon the water,
There's death upon the land!"

Then up spake John De Matha:
"God's errands never fail!
Take thou the mantle which I wear,
And make of it a sail."

They raised the cross-wrought mantle,
The blue, the white, the red;

And straight before the wind off shore
The ship of Freedom sped.

"God help us !" cried the somen,
"For vain in mortal skill:
The good ship on a stormy sea
Is drifting at its will.''

Then up spake John De Hatha:
"My mariners, never fear!
The Lord, whose breath has filled her sail
Ma^- well our vessel steer!"

So on through storm and darkness
They drove for weary hours;

And lo! the third gray morning shone
On Ostia's friendly towers.

And on the walls the watchers

The ship of mercy knew— They knew far off its holy cross,

The red, the white, and blue.

And the bells in all the steeples

Rang out in glad accord,
To welcome home to Christian soil

The ransomed of the Lord.

So runs the ancient legend

By bard and painter told; And lo! the cycle rounds again,

The new is as the old 1

With rudder foully broken,

And sails by traitors torn, Our Country on a midnight sea

Is wailing for the nioru.

Before her, nameless terror;

Behind, the pirate-foe;
The clouds are black above her,

The sea is white below.

The hope of all who suffer;

The dread of all who wrong;
She drifts in darkness and in storm,

How long, 0 Lord! how long?

But courage, 0 my mariners 1

Ye shall not suffer wreck While up to Cod the freedman'a prayers

Are rising from your deck.

Is not your sail the banner

Which God hath blest anew, The mantle that De Hatha wore,

The red, the white, the blue?

Its hues are all of heaven—

The red of sunset's dye,
The whiteness of the moon-lit cloud,

The blue of morning's sky.

Wait cheerily, then, 0 mariners!

For daylight and for land;
The breath of God is in your sail,

Your rudder is his hand.

Sail on, sail on, deep-freighted
With blessings and with hopes;

The saints of old, with shadowy hauds,
Are pulliug at your ropes.

Behind ye holy martyrs

Uplift the palm and crown; Before ye unborn ages send

Their benedictions down.

Take heart from John De Matha!

God's errands never fail! Sweep on through storm and darkness,

The thunder and the hail!

Sail on! the morning cometb,

The port ye yet shall win;
And all the bells of God shall ring

The good ship bravely in!

THE CONFLICT OF AGES.

BT B. HATHAWAY.

All good awaits the ripened years: Above the Present's cry and moan, We catch the far-off undertone

Of coming Time, undimmed with tears;

And more this frailer life endears

Though sore begirt with peril-days,
Faith shapes anew the promise-song
Of— Richt shall triumph over Wrong;

And Evil's subtle, darkened ways

Be set in light. Yet still delays
The golden year, delaying long.

While shrouded in impending gloom,
Hangs dim the nation's beacon star:
Like deepening thunders, boiling far,

Comes up the cannon's awful boom;

Like near resounding trump of doom,
Wide bay the hungry hounds of war!

Alas! but discord's clang and jar

Hay Freedom nurse to larger growth;
But fiercest mortal strife, in sooth,
Can drive the embattled hosts afar,
That, mad with maniac frenzy, bar
The gates to wider realms of truth.

Yet speed the earthquake shock that cleaves
The fetters from a shackled race;
The mountain rive, from crown to base,

Of crime that all the land bereaves;

The whirlwind lightning-wing, that leaves
To Freedom broader breathing-space!

It is not all a godless strife

That sets the longing captive free;

More dread than battle-thunders be

The despot's rod, the assassin's knife—

The dungeon's gloom, the death in life,

Of Peace, whose price is Liberty 1

THE YOUNG PATRIOT.

One more absent,
The batile done;

One more left us,
Victory won.

One more buried
Beneath the soil;

One more standing
Before his God.

Lay him low, lay him low,
Ere the morning break;

Sorrow not, sorrow not,
He minds not heart-ache.

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