A BATTLE HYMN,

Of ourselves we nothing know:
Thou, and Thou alone canst show,
By the favor of Thy hand,

Who has drawn the guilty brand.
If our foemen have the right,
Show Thy judgment in our sight
Through the fortunes of the fight!

If our cause be pure and just,
Nerve our courage with Thy trust:
Scatter, in Thy bitter wrath,
All who cross the nation's path :
May the baffled traitors fly,
As the vapors from the sky
When Thy raging winds are high!

God of mercy, some must fall
In Thy holy cause. Not all
Hope to sing the victor's lay,
When the sword is laid away.
Brief will be the prayers then said;
Falling at Thy altar dead,

Take the sacrifice, instead.

Now, O God! once more we rise,
Marching on beneath Thy eyes;
And we draw the sacred sword

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OUR WOUNDED.

In Thy name and at Thy word.
May our spirits clearly see
Thee, through all that is to be,
In defeat or victory.

OUR WOUNDED.

BY C. K. TUCKERMAN.

AS loftier rise the ocean's heaving crests,

Ere they sink, tempest-driven, on the strand; So do these hearts and freedom-beating breasts, Sublimed by suffering, fall upon our land.

Wounded! O sweet-lipped word! for on the page Of this strange history, all these scars shall be The hieroglyphics of a valiant age,

Deep writ in Freedom's blood-red mystery.

What though your fate sharp agony reveals! What though the mark of brothers' blows you bear!

The breath of your oppression upward steals,

Like incense from crushed spices into air.

Freedom lies listening, nor as yet averts

The battle horrors of these months' slow length;

"AT EVENING TIME," ETC.

But as she listens, silently she girts

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More close, more firm, the armor of her strength.

Then deem them not as lost, these bitter days,
Nor those which yet in anguish must be spent
Far from loved skies and home's peace-moving

ways,

For these are not the losses you lament.

It is the glory that your country bore

Which you would rescue from a living grave ; It is the unity that once she wore

Which your true hearts are yearning still to save.

Despair not it is written! Though the eye,
Red with its watching, can no future scan,
The glow of triumph yet shall flush the sky,
And God redeem the ruin made by man.

"AT EVENING TIME IT SHALL BE LIGHT."

C

UR Nation's Sun was clouded o'er

When erst he rose at morn;

But soon those beams were hid no more,

Afar the clouds were borne.

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TRUMPET SONG.

We for awhile enjoyed his rays,

In all their noontide power;
Now once again is hid that blaze
In this our darkest hour.

But Freedom's sky shall yet be bright :
"At Evening time it shall be light.”

The Sun of Liberty shall ne'er

In clouds and darkness set;

Her sons are brave,— they know no fear,
And God is with us yet.

We know whatever may betide,

Be it for good or ill,

It is in mercy He doth chide,

His arm is pow'rful still.

Then strike! for God and for the Right:
"At Evening time it shall be light."

C. F.

TRUMPET SONG.

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE battle-drum's loud rattle is rending the air, The troopers all are mounted, their sabres are

bare;

TRUMPET SONG.

The guns are unlimbered, the bayonets shine,

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Hark! hark! 't is the trumpet-call! wheel into line! Ta ra ta ta ta!

Trum trum, tra ra ra ra !

Beat drums and blow trumpets!
Hurrah, boys, hurrah!

March onward, soldiers, onward, the strife is begun, Loud bellowing rolls the boom of the black-throated

gun;

The rifles are cracking, the torn banners toss,
The sabres are clashing, the bayonets cross.
Ta ra, etc.

Down with the leaguing liars, the traitors to their trust,

Who trampled the fair charter of Freedom in dust!

They falter

run

they waver- they scatter they

The field is our own, and the battle is won!

Ta ra, etc.

God save our mighty people and prosper our cause!

We're fighting for our nation, our land, and our

laws!