332 THE NORTHERN VOLUNTEERS.
True, loyal sons are we
Of men who fought and died
To leave their children free,
Whom dastards now deride!
Tremble, traitors! at the beaming
Of our starry banner gleaming,
When, like a torrent streaming,
Come the Northern Volunteers!
Dealing death amid their cheers,
Come the Northern Volunteers!
When Northern men unite,
Heart to heart and hand to hand,
For Freedom's cause to fight,
Shall Wrong the Right withstand?
With our country's banner o'er us,
And rebels base before us,
And Liberty the chorus
Of the Northern Volunteers,
How terrible the cheers
Of the Northern Volunteers!
Where Freedom's banner waves,
Over land or over sea,
It shall not cover slaves!
They shall touch it and be free!
Tremble, tyrants! at the flashing
Of our arms, when onward dashing,
You shall hear their fetters crashing,
Broke by Northern Volunteers!
And your slaves give back the cheers
Of the Northern Volunteers!
God of Freedom! give Thy Might
To the spirits of Thy sons!
To their bayonets in fight!
To the death within their guns !
Make their deeds in battle gory
Burn and brightly shine in glory,
When the world shall read the story
Of the Northern Volunteers!
And echo back the cheers
Of the Northern Volunteers!
THEY are coming home, coming home,-
Brother and lover, father and son,
Friend and foe, they are coming home
To rest, for their work is done.
They come from the hospital, picket, and field, -
From iron boat and frowning fort,
In silent companies, slowly wheeled,
In the rhythm of a doleful thought.
This was a father of women and men,
Gray-haired, but hale, and strong of limb;
The bayonet flashed and flashed again,
And the old man's eyes grew dim.
Here was a form of manly grace;
The bomb-shell groaning through the air
Drenched with his blood a pictured face
And a curl of silken hair.
This was a bright-eyed, venturesome boy;
Back from the perilous picket-ground
They bore him, waked from his dream of joy
To a ghastly, fatal wound.
And thus for three days lingering,
He talked in wandering, rapid speech, Of mother and home, and the cooling spring His lips could almost reach.
They are coming home: but not as they went, With the flying flag and stirring band;
With the tender word and message sent
From the distant waving hand.
BY WILLIAM WINTER.
THE apples are ripe in the orchard,
The work of the reaper is done,
And the golden woodlands redden
In the blood of the dying sun.
At the cottage-door the grandsire
Sits pale in his easy-chair,
While the gentle wind of twilight
Plays with his silver hair.
A woman is kneeling beside him;
A fair young head is pressed,
In the first wild passion of sorrow,
Against his aged breast.
And far from over the distance
The faltering echoes come
Of the flying blast of trumpet,
And the rattling roll of drum.
And the grandsire speaks in a whisper:
"The end no man can see;
But we give him to his country,
And we give our prayers to Thee."
The violets star the meadows,
The rose-buds fringe the door,
And over the grassy orchard
The pink-white blossoms pour.
But the grandsire's chair is empty,
The cottage is dark and still;
There's a nameless grave in the battle-field,
And a new one under the hill.
And a pallid, tearless woman
By the cold hearth sits alone,
And the old clock in the corner
Ticks on with a steady drone.
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