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Richmond and Sharpsburgh thundered by,

With that tremendous fight That gave him to the angel host,

Who watched the camp that night.

We mourn for him, who died for us,

With one resistless moan,
While up the Valley of the Lord

He marches to the Throne !
He kept the faith of men and saints

Sublime, and pure, and bright;
He sleeps—and all is well with him

Who watched the camp that night.

Brothers ! the midnight of the cause

Is shrouded in our fate-
The demon Goths pollute our halls

With fire, and lust, and hate!
Be strong-be valiant-be assured-

Strike home for Heaven and Right !
The soul of Jackson stalks abroad,

And guards the camp to-night!

Not 'mid the lightning of the stormy fight,
Not in the rush upon the vandal foe,
Did kingly Death, with his resistless might,

Lay the Great Leader low.

His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke
In the full sunshine of a peaceful town.
When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak

That propped our cause went down.

Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground,
Recording all his grand, heroic deeds,
Freedom herself is writhing with the wound,

And all the country bleeds.

He entered not the Nation's Promised Land,
At the red belching of the cannon's mouth;
But broke the House of Bondage 'with his hand-

The Moses of the South !

O gracious God! not gainless is the loss :
A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown;
And, while his country staggers, with the Cross,

He rises with the Crown!

To the Exchanged Prisoners.

The anchors are weighed, and the gates of your

prison Fall wide, as your ship gives her prow to the

foam, And a few hurried hours shall return you exulting,

Where the flag you have fought for floats over

your home.

God send that not long may its folds be uplifted O'er fields dark and sad with the trail of the

fightGod give it the triumph He always hath given,

Or sooner or later, to Valor and Right!

But if peace may not yet wreath your homes with

her olive, And new victims are still round the altar to

bleed, God shield you amid the red bolts of the battle ! God give you stout hearts for high thought and

brave deed!

No need we should bid you go strike for your

freedom You have stricken, like men, for its blessings

homes and


ones, your wrongs and your manhood, Will nerve you to fight the good fight o'er and


But will you not think, as you wave your glad ban

ners, How the flag of old Maryland, trodden in shame, Lies sullied and torn in the dust of her highways

And will you not strike a fresh blow in her name?

Her mothers have sent their first-born to be with

you, Wherever with blood there are fields to be wonHer daughters have wept for you, clad you and

nursed you

Their vows and their hopes and their smiles are

your own.

Let her cause be your cause, and whenever the

war-cry Bids

you rush to the field, oh ! remember her too

And when freedom and peace shall be blended in

glory, Oh! count it your shame if she be not with you.

And if in the hour when pride, honor, and duty,

Shall stir every throb in the hearts of brave men, The wrongs of the helpless can quicken such pulses, Let the captives at Warren give flame to them


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