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Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;

The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,

And dies among his worshipers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,

When they who helped thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,

Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed

The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

UNDER THE STARS

BY WALLACE RICE

Tell me what sail the seas

Under the stars?
Ships, and ships' companies,

Off to the wars.
Steel are the ship's great sides,

Steel are her guns,
Backward she thrusts the tides,

Swiftly she runs;
Steel is the sailor's heart,

Stalwart his arm,
His the Republic's part

Through cloud and storm.

Tell me what standard rare

Streams from the spars? Red stripes and white they bear,

Blue, with bright stars:

Red for brave hearts that burn

With liberty, White for the peace they earn

Making men free,

Stars for the Heaven above,

Blue for the deep, Where, in their country's love,

Heroes shall sleep.

Tell me why on the breeze

These banners blow? Ships, and ships' companies,

Eagerly go

Warring, like all our line,

Freedom to friend Under this starry sign,

True to the end.

Fair is the Flag's renown,

Sacred her scars, Sweet the death she shall crown

Under the stars.

SHERMAN 1

BY RICHARD WATSON GILDER

Glory and honor and fame and everlasting laudation For our captains who loved not war, but fought for

the life of the nation; Who knew that, in all the land, one slave meant strife,

not peace; Who fought for freedom, not glory; made war that

war might cease.

Glory and honor and fame; the beating of muffled

drums; The wailing funeral dirge, as the flag-wrapped coffin

comes; Fame and honor and glory; and joy for a noble soul, For a full and splendid life, and laureled rest at the

goal.

Glory and honor and fame; the pomp that a soldier

prizes; The league-long waving line as the marching falls and

rises; Rumbling of caissons and guns; the clatter of horses'

feet, And a million awe-struck faces far down the waiting

street. By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. But better than martial woe, and the pageant of civic

sorrow; Better than praise of to-day, or the statue we build to

morrow; Better than honor and glory, and history's iron pen, Was the thought of duty done and the love of his fel

low-men.

OUR HONORED DEAD

BY HENRY WARD BEECHER

Oh, tell me not that they are dead-that generous host, that airy army of invisible heroes! They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this Nation. Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people with nobler motives and more heroic patriotism?

Every mountain and hill shall have its treasured name, every river shall keep some solemn title, every valley and every lake shall cherish its honored register; and till the mountains are worn out, and the rivers forget to flow-till the clouds are weary of replenishing springs, and the springs forget to gush, and the rills to sing, shall their names be kept fresh with reverent honors which are inscribed upon the book of National Remembrance !

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ROLL-CALL

BY NATHANIEL GRAHAM SHEPHERD

Corporal Green!” the Orderly cried;
“ Here!

was the answer loud and clear,
From the lips of a soldier who stood near,-
And “Here!” was the word the next replied.

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Cyrus Drew!”-then a silence fell;
This time no answer followed the call;

Only his rear-man had seen him fall:
Killed or wounded-he could not tell.

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There they stood in the failing light,

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,

As plain to be read as open books,
While slowly gathered the shades of night.
The fern on the hillsides was splashed with blood,

And down in the corn, where the poppies grew,

Were redder stains than the poppies knew,
And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.

For the foe had crossed from the other side,

That day, in the face of a murderous fire

That swept them down in its terrible ire;
And their life-blood went to color the tide.

“ Herbert Cline!”—At the call there came.

Two stalwart soldiers into the line,

Bearing between them this Herbert Cline,
Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

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