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 PROFUNDIS1 BY LUCY LARCOM Glory to Thee, Father of all the Immortal, We bring Thee from our watch by the grave's portal Though every wave of trouble has gone o'er us,- We have lost treasures time cannot restore us,- That made life beautiful fades out in sorrow, Though the strange path Winding so lonely through the bleak to-morrow, 'By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Though blackness gathers round us on all faces, By the red war-flash but Love's empty places,— For, underneath the crash and roar of battle, That calls men off to butchery like cattle, Under the horrid sound of chaos seething We feel the moving of Thy Spirit, breathing Into the air of our long-sickened nation; The star-sung prelude of a new creation; The bursting upward of a stifled glory, To light new pages in the world's great story If upon lips too close to dead lips leaning, Yet wilt Thou know our life's unuttered meaning: In its deep ground, As seeds in earth, sleep sorrow-drenched praises, Incense to Thee along thought's barren mazes Glory to Thee! we say, with shuddering wonder, While a hushed land Hears the stern lesson syllabled in thunder, As life must be; that neither man nor nation With a soul's life-blood-horrible oblation! That Thou wilt not be mocked by prayer whose nurses That trees so vile must drop back fruit in curses Glory to Thee, who wilt not let us smother Sending Pain's messengers fast on each other Praise for the scourging under which we languish, And save us strength, if yet uncleansed by anguish, Life were not life to us, could they be fables,— Scathe crime with lightning, till we see the tables Glory to Thee, whose glory and whose pleasure By Thee the mysteries we cannot measure With the abysses of Thyself above us, That Thou dost look from Thy pure heaven and love us, Enough to know. Enough to lay our praises on Thy bosom- Out of our depths, dark root and open blossom, When choking tears make our Hosannas falter, Oh, keep clear voices singing at Thy altar, "HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?"1 BY FRANCIS BRET HARTE The U. S. Sanitary Commission was organized to supply 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!" Right and left the caissons drew As the car went lumbering through, 'By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Quick succeeding in review Squadrons military; Sunburnt men with beards like frieze, 66 "U. S. San. Com." That's the cheese!" In such cheer it struggled on 66 Help us, brothers, ere we die,- Such the work. The phantom flies, See the jasper gates swung wide, WHAT THE BULLET SANG1 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. 1 |
