And ship by ship, raked, overborne, ere burned the

sunset light, Crawls in the gloom of baffled hate beyond the field of

fight!

O glorious Empress of the Main! from out thy storied

spires Thou well mayst peal thy bells of joy, and light thy

festal fires, Since Heaven this day hath striven for thee, hath

nerved thy dauntless sons, And thou in clear-eyed faith hast seen God's angels

near the guns! (Southern.)

CANTICLE DE PROFUNDIS

BY LUCY LARCOM

Glory to Thee, Father of all the Immortal,

Ever belongs;
We bring Thee from our watch by the grave's portal

Nothing but songs.
Though every wave of trouble has gone o'er us,-

Though in the fire
We have lost treasures time cannot restore us-

Though all desire
That made life beautiful fades out in sorrow,-

Though the strange path
Winding so lonely through the bleak to-morrow,

No comfort hath, * By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

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Though blackness gathers round us on all faces,

And we can see By the red war-flash but Love's empty places,

Glory to Thee!

For, underneath the crash and roar of battle,

The deafening roll
That calls men off to butchery like cattle,

Soul after soul;
Under the horrid sound of chaos seething

In blind hot strife,
We feel the moving of Thy Spirit, breathing

A better life
Into the air of our long-sickened nation;

A muffled hymn;
The star-sung prelude of a new creation;

Suffusions dim,
The bursting upward of a stifled glory,

That shall arise
To light new pages in the world's great story

For happier eyes.
If upon lips too close to dead lips leaning,

Songs be not found,
Yet wilt Thou know our life's unuttered meaning:

In its deep ground,
As seeds in earth, sleep sorrow-drenchèd praises,

Waiting to bring
Incense to Thee along thought's barren mazes

When Thou send'st spring.

Glory to Thee! we say, with shuddering wonder,

While a hushed land

Hears the stern lesson syllabled in thunder,

That Truth is grand
As life must be; that neither man nor nation

May soil Thy throne
With a soul's life-blood-horrible oblation!

Nor quick be shown
That Thou wilt not be mocked by prayer whose nurses

Were Hate and Wrong;
That trees so vile must drop back fruit in curses

Bitter and strong.
Glory to Thee, who wilt not let us smother

Ourselves in sin;
Sending Pain's messengers fast on each other

Us whence to win!
Praise for the scourging under which we languish,

So torn, so sore!
And save us strength, if yet uncleansed by anguish,

To welcome more.
Life were not life to us, could they be fables,-

Justice and Right:
Scathe crime with lightning, till we see the tables

Of Law burn bright!
Glory to Thee, whose glory and whose pleasure

Must be in good!
By Thee the mysteries we cannot measure

Are understood.
With the abysses of Thyself above us,

Our sins below,
That Thou dost look from Thy pure heaven and

love us,

Enough to know.

Enough to lay our praises on Thy bosom,

Praises fresh-grown
Out of our depths, dark root and open blossom,

Up to Thy throne.
When choking tears make our Hosannas falter,

The music free!
Oh, keep clear voices singing at Thy altar,

Glory to Thee!

"HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?"1

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BY FRANCIS BRET HARTE

The U. S. Sanitary Commission was organized to sup

ply comforts to the soldiers in the field. Out of this grew the Red Cross Associations

Down the picket-guarded lane
Rolled the comfort-laden wain,
Cheered by shouts that shook the plain,

Soldier-like and merry:
Phrases such as camps may teach,
Saber-cuts of Saxon speech,
Such as “Bully!” “Them's the peach!”

“ Wade in, Sanitary!”

66

Right and left the caissons drew
As the car went lumbering through,

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By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Quick succeeding in review

Squadrons military;
Sunburnt men with beards like frieze,
Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these, -
“U. S. San. Com.” That's the cheese!

“Pass in, Sanitary!"
In such cheer it struggled on
Till the battle front was won,
Then the car, its journey done,

Lo! was stationary;
And where bullets whistling fly,
Came the sadder, fainter cry,
Help us, brothers, ere we die,-

Save us, Sanitary!
Such the work. The phantom flies,
Wrapped in battle clouds that rise;
But the brave-whose dying eyes,

Veiled and visionary,
See the jasper gates swung wide,
See the parted throng outside
Hear the voice to those who ride:

“ Pass in, Sanitary!”

WHAT THE BULLET SANG 1

BY FRANCIS BRET HARTE

O joy of creation

To be!
O rapture to fly

And be free! * By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

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