We will finish the work that the Fathers begun;
Then those to their sleeping,

And these to their weeping,

And one faith and flag for the Federal gun!

Speak, helmsman, the words

Half battles, half swords—

Let the "President's March" be resounding abroad;
With the pen and the page

Keeping time with the age,

Till thy swords without scabbards flash grandly for God!

Then the rattling roll of the musketeers,

And the ruffled drums, and the rallying cheers,
And the rifles burn with a keen desire,
Like the crackling whips of the hemlock fire;

And the singing shout, and the shrieking shell,
And the splintery fire of the shattered hell,
And the great white breaths of the cannon smoke,
As the growling guns by batteries spoke

In syllables dropped from the thunder of God-
The throb of the cloud where the drummer boy trod!
And the ragged gaps in the walls of blue

Where the iron surge rolled heavily through,

That the colonel builds with a breath again,
As he cleaves the din with his "Close up, men!"
And the groan torn out from the blackened lips,
And the prayer doled slow with the crimson drips,
And the beamy look in the dying eye,

As under the cloud the Stars go by!
But his soul marched on, the captain said,
For the boy in blue can never be dead!

And the troopers sit in their saddles all,
As the statues carved in an ancient hall,

And they watch the whirl from their breathless ranks,
And their spurs are close to the horses' flanks,

And the fingers work of the sabre hand

Oh! to bid them live, and to make them grand!

And the bugle sounds to the charge at last,
And away they plunge, and the front is past,

And the jackets blue grow red as they ride,

And the scabbards, too, that clank by their side,
And the dead soldiers deaden the strokes iron shod,
As they gallop right on o'er the plashy red sod;

Right into the clouds all spectral and dim,
Right up to the guns, black-throated and grim,

Right down on the hedges bordered with steel,

Right through the dense columns, then "Right about, wheel!" Hurrah! a new swath through the harvest again!

Hurrah for the flag! To the battle, amen!

O glimpse of clear heaven!

Artillery riven

The Fathers' old fallow God seeded with stars;
Thy furrows were turning,

When ploughshares were burning,

And half of each "bout" is redder than Mars!

Flaunt forever thy story,

O wardrobe of glory

Where the Fathers laid down their mantles of blue;

And challenged the ages,

O grandest of pages

In covenant solemn, eternal, and true.

O flag! glory-rifted,

To-day thunder-drifted,

Like a tower of strange grace, on the crest of a surge;

On some Federal fold

A new tale shall be told,

And the record immortal emblazon thy verge.

VICKSBURG.

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

OR sixty days and upward a storm of shell and shot

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Rained round us in a flaming shower, but still we faltered not.

If the noble city perish," our grand young leader said,

"Let the only walls the foes shall scale be ramparts of the dead!"

For sixty days and upward the eye of heaven waxed dim;

And e'en throughout God's holy morn, o'er Christian prayer and hymn,

Arose a hissing tumult, as if the fiends in air

Strove to engulf the voice of faith in the shrieks of their despair.

There was wailing in the houses, there was trembling on the marts, While the tempest raged and thundered, 'mid the silent thrill of hearts;

But the Lord, our shield, was with us, and ere a month had sped,
Our very women walked the streets with scarce one throb of dread;

And the little children gambolled, their faces purely raised,
Just for a wondering moment, as the huge bombs whirled and blazed;
Then turned with silvery laughter to the sports which children love
Thrice-mailed in the sweet instinctive thought that the good God
watched above.

Yet the hailing bolts fell faster from scores of flame-clad ships,
And above us, denser, darker, grew the conflict's wild eclipse;
Till a solid cloud closed o'er us, like a type of doom and ire,
Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues of forked and vengeful
fire.

But the unseen hand of angels those death-shafts warned aside,
And the dove of heavenly mercy ruled o'er the battle-tide;
In the houses ceased the wailing and through the war-scarred marts
The people strode, with the step of hope, to the music in their hearts.

THE NINETEENTH OF APRIL, 1861.

LUCY LARCOM.

[I think your purpose is a good one-to keep our national history a reality for the younger peoople; and I will explain that these verses were written on the very day that the news came by telegraph of our soldiers being fired upon as they passed through Baltimore. I had seen that very regiment leave Boston the day before. It was an intense experience. The "To-day for us have bled" was literally true, and if you wish to make use of the fact, you can do so.-LUCY LARCOM.]

HIS year, till late in April, the snow fell thick and light;

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The flag of peace, dear nature, in clinging drifts of white

Hung over field and city; now everywhere is seen,

In place of that white quietness, a sudden glow of green.

The verdure climbs the Common, beneath the ancient trees, To where the glorious Stars and Stripes are floating on the breeze,

There, suddenly spring awoke from winter's snow-draped gloom, The passion flower of Seventy-six is bursting into bloom.

Dear is the time of roses, when earth to joy is wed,

And garden-plot and meadow wear one generous flush of red;
But now in dearer beauty, to freedom's colors true,
Blooms the old town of Boston in red and white and blue.

Along the whole awakening North are those true colors spread;
A summer noon of patriotism is burning overhead,

No party badges flaunting now, no word of clique or clan;
But “Up for God and Union!" is the shout of every man.

Oh, peace is dear to Northern hearts, our hard-earned homes more dear;

But freedom is beyond the price of any earthly cheer;

And freedom's flag is sacred; he who would work it harm,
Let him, although a brother, beware our strong right arm!

A brother! ah, the sorrow, the anguish of that word!

The fratricidal strife begun, when shall its end be heard?

Not this the boon that patriot hearts have prayed and waited for; We loved them, and we longed for peace; but they would have it war.

Yes, war! On this memorial day, the day of Lexington,

A lightning thrill along the wires from heart to heart has run; Brave men we gazed on yesterday, to-day for us have bled; Again is Massachusetts blood the first for freedom shed.

To war, and with our brethren, then, if only this can be! Life hangs as nothing in the scale against dear liberty! Though hearts be torn asunder, we for motherland will fight; Our blood may seal the victory, but God will shield the right!