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Windward I saw the billows swing

Dark crests to beckon others on To see our end; then, hurrying

'To reach us ere we should be gone, They came, like tigers mad to fling

Their jostling bodies on our ships,
And snarl at us with foaming lips.

There was no time to spare: a wave

E'en then broke growling at my feet; One last look to the sky I gave,

Then sprang my eager foes to meet.
Loud rang the fray above our grave-

I felt the vessel downward reel
As my last thrust met thrusting steel.

I heard a roaring in my ears;

A green wall pressed against my eyes; Down, down I passed; the vanished years

I saw in mimicry arise.
Yet even then I felt no fears,

And with my last expiring breath
My past rose up and mocked at death.

VICKSBURG

BY PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE

For sixty days and upwards,

A storm of shell and shot
Rained round us in a flaming shower,

But still we faltered not.

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"If the noble city perish,"

Our grand young leader said, "Let the only walls the foe shall scale

Be ramparts of the dead!”

For sixty days and upwards,

The eye of heaven waxed dim;
And even 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.

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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 gamboled,

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 about 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 hands 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 step of hope,

To the music in their hearts. (Southern.)

THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE

ANONYMOUS

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou

sand more, From Mississippi's winding stream and from New

England's shore; We leave our plows and workshops, our wives and

children dear, With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou

tear;

sand more!

If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern

sky, Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may

descry; And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil

aside, And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride, And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave

music pour :

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou

sand more!

If you look all up our valleys where the growing har

vests shine, You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into

line; And children from their mother's knees are pulling at

the weeds, And learning how to reap and sow against their coun

try's needs; And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage

door: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou

sand more!

You have called us, and we're coming, by Richmond's

bloody tide To lay us down, for Freedom's sake, our brother's

bones beside,

Or from foul treason's savage grasp to wrench the

murderous blade, And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade. Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone

before: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thou

sand more!

IN DAYS LIKE THESE

BY THOMAS H. STACY

O God of hosts, whose mighty hand

Our fathers led across the seas,
We took from thee our goodly land,

To thee we look in days like these.
'Mid swelling tumult, bitter word,

'Mid clashing arms and bugles' blare,

While war-drums fret the fevered air,
In days like these, be near, O Lord.

The winds have swept our colors out,

Our polished guns the sun has kissed;
With measured step and loyal shout,

The men troop by who now are missed,
The hilltops signal far away,

The sea calls sea with beacon lips,

Where ride our far-flung battleships
To strike the foe at break of day.

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