THE stars of the morn On our banner borne, Then hail the true Red, White, and Blue, The flag of the Constellation; It sails as it sailed, By our forefathers hailed, With the iris of heaven are blended; O'er battles that made us a nation. THE ROLL OF HONOR. DEDICATED On the Roll of Honor, boys; on the ΤΟ MAJOR - GENERAL Oh, let them see our names will be on ROSECRANS, WHO INSTITUTED THE LIKE the lordly Mississippi, we are sweeping to the South, A mighty Union river, and the Gulf shall be its mouth; O'er our front wave floats our banner, boys, that leads to glory's goal, And at its side, in martial pride, is borne the Honor Roll. On the Roll of Honor, boys; on the Roll of Honor, boys; Oh, let us see our names shall be on the Roll of Honor, boys. Like a great wind we drive Southward, with a storm of Northern hail, And our banner rides before us, as a cloud upon the gale; We will tear from out the rebel's hold his stolen stars and bars, And fame shall see our names enrolled beneath the stripes and stars. On the Roll of Honor, boys; on the Roll of Honor, boys; And fame shall see our names will be on the Roll of Honor, boys. With this great gale sweeping Southward, daily come the gentle airs Of our fathers' words of courage, and our mothers' constant prayers; With them our wives and sweethearts, with a love beyond control, Are reading in their fancy, boys, the names on Honor's roll. And when the last armed rebel falls, and bites his native dust; When waves o'er every mile of land the banner of our trust, We'll return to those whose images are shrined within the soul, And proudly listen while they read our names on Honor's roll. On the Roll of Honor, boys; on the Roll of Honor, boys; Oh, let them see our names will be on the Roll of Honor, boys. When the twilight settles round us in life's evening cool and gray, Among our children's children we'll describe the battle-day; They'll cluster to our knees to hear the story never old, And watch our trembling veteran hands point out the names enrolled On the Roll of Honor, boys; on the Roll of Honor, boys; And they shall see our names will be on the Roll of Honor, boys. And when at last Death's night comes on and stops the battle-din, And we have conquered in our hearts the rebel hosts of sin, To the fields of Peace above us, may we march there soul to soul, And find our names emblazoned on the great Celestial Roll. On that Roll of Honor, boys; on that Roll of Honor, boys; Oh, let us see our names will be on that Roll of Honor, boys. THE WAGONER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. A POEM OF THE DAYS OF SEVENTY-SIX. Look on your country, God's appointed stage, A fear in winter; girdled you about With granite hills, and made you firm and dread. Let him who fears before the foeman shout, Or gives one inch before a vein has bled, Turn on himself and let the traitor out. BOKER. PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. THE author is well aware of the justice of the remark made by his publisher, that the present is not a favorable time to expect the country to receive a volume of poetry with any marked attention; yet, as much of it has already been given to the public through the beautiful medium of Mr. Murdoch's voice, and as many have expressed a wish to see the poem entire, the author is induced to risk the chances. This is, however, not done without some fear and trembling on his part, inasmuch as it may turn out to be that the various audiences who have heard it, and expressed their approbation, may have been led captive by the reader's great elocutionary power rather than by the beauty of the verse. Whatever the verdict may be, one gratifying fact remains with the writer, that it has been instrumental, in the hands of Mr. Murdoch, of putting no inconsiderable sums of money into the treasuries of sanitary committees, thereby benefiting the sick and wounded who have suffered in our country's cause. THE scenes of this poem are chiefly laid on the banks of the Schuylkill, between Philadelphia and Valley Forge; the time, somewhat previous to and during a great part of the war of Independence. 'Twas evening, and the autumn fire Was feasting at the well-built pyre, Where every log, with glowing mirth, Poured from its breast of ample girth Some memory of April birth, To cheer the hearth-stone of October. There, conscious of his place and worth, One lordly hound, with visage sober, Sheathed his large eyes in sleep's eclipse, While visions of the woodland chase Disturbed the slumber on his face With twinklings at his ears and lips. That honored hearth was like a gate And still each Scripture picture smiles And brightens in the hickory glow. Oft from those painted sermons rude, A moral winged with verse may reach And truths from out a picture oft, May shed an influence to remain The chairs were quaint, antique, and tall, As in some old baronial hall; Like Denmark's mailed and phan- A suit of armor tall and grim With upraised glaive seemed beckoning. Must needs have followed on and on! And had it walked, the gazer, drawn, What death had pierced the wearer's The perforated steel confessed breast. Near by, upon a throne upreared, In all the orchestras which lift The soul with rapture caught from far, As in a bright triumphal car Round which celestial splendors shift, No instrument of earth affords An influence so divine and deep As when the flying fingers sweep The harp, with all its wondrous chords. Around its honored form there lives Romance mysterious, vague, and old; I see the shapes which history gives The bards in din traditions told,With visions of great kingly balls, Where red, barbaric splendor falls; But chiefly I behold and hear— While bends a troop of seraphs near The angels, with their locks of gold. Here, while I slowly paced the room, Strange visions filled the fitful gloom. On soft, invisible feet they came; I heard them speak,-or was't the flame That muttered in the chimney wide? A blaze that vanished with a bound! whine escaped the sleeping hound, A sudden wind swept up the lane, And drove the leaves like frighted herds; Some, like the ghosts of summer birds, Fluttered against the window-pane. Hawthorne, my friend, had I your wand, How, at the waving of my hand, gone, Should on the marvelling vision dawn! Each shepherdess, or warrior bold, Each knight and dame, in ruff and frill, Obedient to the wizard will, Should step from antique oak or gold ; Bright eyes should glance, sweet voices sing, And light feet trip the waxen floor, And round the festive board should ring The friendly goblets, as of yore; |
