SEQUEL AFTER-TIMES. Has Bull vos valking in London haround, MANASSAS. BY FLORENCE WILLESFORD BORRON. A requiem-raise the solemn strain, A feeling thrills the ocean deep; Its night upon the wave; They fought where Glory, pale and low, On lost Manassas' field; 'Gainst onward charge and rallying cry, They came-in glory, power, and pride, In triumph and in fame! War-worn and stern-bankrupts of life- Scarred where Death's shot and shell were rife, Before that Southern wall of dead, What horror round their path was spread! E'en Bunker Hill's dark annals bled, To be in fame outdone. Back from the army of the slain, From old Virginia's stern campaign, The wreck from forth that iron rain A mournful honor won. Wake, glorious Union-save thy realm! Antæus-like, thy sons rebound, Uprising from the ensanguined ground, Unflinching heart and hand-around Shall peal the battle strain; * Washington. Now, three rousing cheers for the Union! As we are marching on! CHORUS. Glory, halle-hallelujah! Glory, halle-hallelujah! Glory, halle-hallelujah! Hip, hip, hip, hip, Hurrah! -N. Y. Tribune, July 28. THE BATTLE SUMMER. BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. The summer wanes,-her languid sighs now yield More clear against the flushed horizon wall, More near the cricket's note, the plover's call, The sunshine chastened, like a mother's gaze, For on the landscape's brightly pensive face, His ruddy stains upon the woods we trace, No more we bask in Earth's contented smile, Vainly her charms the patriot's soul beguile, Or turn him aside from his goal in the West? Ah! sons of the plains where the orange tree blooms, Ye may come to our pine-covered mountains for tombs; But the light ye would smother was kindled by One Who gave to the universe planet and sun. Go, strangle the throat of Niagara's wrath, Till he utters no sound on his torrent-cut path; Go, cover his pulses with sods of the ground, Till he hides from your sight like a hare from the hound; Then swarm to our borders and silence the notes That thunder of freedom from millions of throats. Come on with your "chattels," all worn, from the soil They die unlamented by people and laws, Who have blocked up the track of Humanity's car; The streams may forget how they mingled our gore, blades: Columbia may rise from her trial of fire, More pure than she came from the hand of her sire; "MY MARYLAND."'* [WORDS ALTERED.] BY J. F. WEISHAMPEL, JR. The traitor's foot is on thy shore, His touch is on thy Senate door, Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, When vandal mobs thy banners tore, Maryland, my Maryland! Hark to the nation's loud appeal, For life and death, for woe and weal, Maryland, my Maryland! Thou shouldst not cower in the dust, Maryland, my Maryland! Shake off thy sloth, wipe off thy rust, Maryland, my Maryland! Remember Washington's great trust, Preserve it from the foeman's thrust, And hope in God-thy cause is just! Maryland, my Maryland! Some months ago, a Secession song, set to a fine piece of music, and entitled "My Maryland," appeared in Southern papers, and was played and sung with great pleasure by the Secession ladies. The song had a line of real nerve running through it which rendered it very popular; but the sentiment was so false, and founded upon such gross misrepresentations, that it was offensive to any one not absorbed in the prevailing madness. The song was remodelled-its fire was turned against the enemy-and here we have it, the true utterance of a patriotism that still lives among the people of Maryland as time will show. See page 93, Poetry and Incidents, vol. 1. Hark, how the bells of Freedom toll, Maryland, my Maryland! I hear the distant thunder hum, Maryland, my Maryland! They menace thee with ball and bomb! Drum out thy phalanx brave and strong, Drum forth to balance Right and Wrong, Drum to thy old heroic song, Dear State! Beware the tyrant's chain, Behold Virginia's throes of pain, Maryland, my Maryland! While rapine staiks her wide domain, Maryland, my Maryland! Our God will make all right again! October, 1861. EIGHTY-FIVE YEARS AGO. A BALLAD FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY. BY A. J. II. DUGANNE. Oh, how the past comes over me- With the drums of the Old Time beating, Out of the streets of Lexington And pray, with their iron musketry, And, reddening all the greensward, Hearken to Stark, of Hampshire: "Ho, comrades all!" quoth he"King George's Hessian hirelings On yonder plains ye see! We'll beat them, boys! or Mary Stark He broke upon the foe, And he won the battle of Bennington- Down from the wild Green Mountains Bold Ethan Allen stooped, He gained without a blow, "In the name of the Great Jehovah!" Eighty-five years ago! Out from the resonant belfry Sounded the tongue of a brazen bell, To give the oppressed their freedom, And the voice of brave John Hancock, And out from Sullivan's Island, Snatched from the ditch below, So, the Old Days come over me- And we hear her heart's wild throe, Let us think of the Old, Old Union,Eighty-five years ago! -N. Y. Leader. THE NINETEEN HUNDRED. I. Crossed the deep river, II. Behind, the Potomac Gloomily rushed along; Forests to right of them, Forests to left of them, Forests in front of them, Filled with the rebel host- Hung the fell marksmen, Here, in the field of death III. Bravely they fought, and well, IV. Threefold outnumbered, Thinner and thinner grew Ranks without fear and true, Falling where firm they stood, Drenching the earth with blood, Wrapped in the smoke of deathNo more Nineteen Hundred; The river behind them, Forests to right of them, Forests to left of them, Forests in front of them, Filled with the storm of hell, Flashing with death-strokes. Bravely the gunners fell, Facing that storm of hellFighting till all went down; Then stood the guns alone, Silent their thunders. Still loud their leader's cry Cheered to the onset; Still bravely made reply All that remained yet Of Nineteen Hundred. Towered that noble form, Still aloft that gray head, Beacon 'mid the battle's storm. Dashed by a traitor's hand, Down sunk that beacon light. Crushed by the rushing mass, Threefold outnumbering, Charging on front of them, Charging on flank of them, Borne to the rugged bluffs, Nothing to stay them; Swamped in the crazy boats, Plunged in the roaring flood, Wounded and dying; Pelted by leaden hail, Fierce and unsparing, Making their passage good, Many bold swimmers; Oh, the wild dash they made Ne'er shall their glory fade; Sons of St. Tammany! Joined here your glorious bands Old men, with gushing tears, How from their blood there sprang Till the Stars and Stripes on high, Like a banner in the sky, VI. Honor the living and dead, Who dashed o'er the river; Ne'er can their names be sundered,Honor the Nineteen Hundred; By the blood that was shed, By the souls of the dead, TO GENERAL BUTLER. BY BAY STATE." Ben. Butler, my boy, Of your brave words and acts to hear; A MONARCH DETHRONED. BY MRS. E. VALE SMITH. "Old Cotton, the King, boys-aha !— With his locks so fleecy and white," Descends, like a falling star, To the sceptre he had no right,- To the sceptre he had no right. Old Cotton, the King, was so bold, With injustice to prop up his throne, That now he's left out in the coldThe nations all leave him alone,Boys, alone! The nations all leave him alone. Old Cotton, the King, built his throne On the slaves' forced toil and tears, And each bale was bound with a groan; So he's dead of his guilty fears,Boys, his fears! So he's dead of his guilty fears. Old Cotton no more holds the reins; Old Cotton, the once potent King, |