248 THE PATRIOT GIRL TO HER LOVER. When half the world is Freedom's The Lord has led us forth, To sweep the rebel threshing-floors, THE PATRIOT GIRL TO HER LOVER. BY GEORGE VANDENHOFF. HARK! the trumpet is sounding, it's a war-note I hear; Arise, arm, and go forth my own Knight; And though my hand tremble, my eye drop a tear, I'll gird on your sword for the fight! O deem you the maid whose affection you claim, Could bear without blushing a recreant's name, You have vowed that your heart and your hopes are in me, That you live in the light of my eyes; Let their lovebeam your beacon to victory be, WHO'S READY. 249 Would you win one? Be worthy of her who would die Ere be link'd to a coward or slave; And yielding her heart's blood would breathe but one sigh, A prayer her dear country to save. Go forth then and conquer; be strong in the fight; Think of me, and put heart in each blow : Strike for Country, for UNION, for Love, and for RIGHT, And down with the insolent foe! GOD WHO'S READY? BY EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. OD help us! Who's ready? There's danger before! Who's armed and who's mounted? The foe's at the door! The smoke of his cannon hangs black o'er the plain; His shouts ring exultant while counting our slain ; And Northward and Northward he presses his 250 WHO'S READY? No halting, no discord, the moments are Fates; There's all we hold dearest to lose or to win ; Lead armies or councils, — be soldier a-field, – Alike, so you strike when the bugle-notes call, lay! Earth's noblest are praying, at home and o'er sea, If once we should falter or faint in the strife; vail ! Who's ready? "All ready!" undaunted we cry ; "For Country, for Freedom, we'll fight till we die ! No traitor, at midnight, shall pierce us in rest; THE SNOW AT FREDERICKSBURG. 251 No alien, at noonday, shall stab us abreast; The God of our Fathers is guiding us still, All forward! we 're ready, and conquer we will!" THE SNOW AT FREDERICKSBURG. ANONYMOUS. DRIFT over the slopes of the sunrise land, Oh wonderful, wonderful snow! Oh! pure as the breast of a virgin saint, Over the slopes of the sunrise land, And into the haunted dells Of the forests of pine, where the robbing winds Are tuning their memory bells. Into the forests of sighing pines, And over those yellow slopes, That seem but the work of the cleaving plough, That cover so many hopes! They are many indeed, and straightly made, Not shapen with loving care; But the souls let out and the broken blades 252 THE SNOW AT FREDERICKSBURG. Fall over those lonely hero graves, On the warrior heads below! Like the tender sigh of a mother's soul, As she waiteth and watcheth for One Who will never come back from the sunrise land When this terrible war is done. And here, where lieth the high of heart, Drift white as the bridal veil That will never be borne by the drooping girl Who sitteth afar, so pale. Fall, fast as the tears of the suffering wife, Out to the blood-rich battle-fields That crimson the Eastern sands. Fall in thy virgin tenderness, Drift tenderly over those yellow slopes, |