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Hung over field and city: now everywhere is seen,
The verdure climbs the Common, beneath the leafless
trees, To where the glorious Stars and Stripes are floating
on the breeze. There, suddenly as spring awoke from winter's snow
draped gloom, The Passion-Flower of Seventy-Six is bursting into
Dear is the time of roses, when earth to joy is wed, And garden-plot and meadow wear one generous flush
of red; But now in dearer beauty, to her ancient colors true, Blooms the old town of Boston in red and white and
Along the whole awakening North are those bright em
blems spread; A summer noon of patriotism is burning overhead: No party badges flaunting now, no word of clique or
clan; But “Up for God and Union!” is the shout of every
Oh, peace is dear to Northern hearts; our hard
earned homes more dear; But Freedom is beyond the price of any earthly cheer; And Freedom's flag is sacred; he who would work it
harm, Let him, although a brother, beware our strong right
Ah brother! ah, the sorrow, the anguish of that word! The fratricidal strife begun, when will its end be
heard ? Not this the boon that patriot hearts have prayed and
waited for; We loved them, and we longed for peace: but they
would have it war.
Yes; war! on this memorial day, the day of Lex
ington, A lightning-thrill along the wires from heart to heart
has run. Brave men we gazed on yesterday, to-day for us have
bled; Again is Massachusetts blood the first for Freedom
To war,-and with our brethren then,-if only this
Life hangs as nothing in the scale against dear Liberty! Though hearts be torn asunder, for Freedom we will
fight: Our blood may seal the victory, but God will shield
July 21, 1861
BY CATHERINE M. WARFIELD
They have met at last-as storm-clouds
Meet in heaven,
Have been driven :
Rent and riven!
Like the leaves of Vallombrosa
They are lying;
Dead and dying;
When aloft in morning sunlight
Flags were flaunted,
But peace to those who perished
In our passes !
Green the grasses !
At Manassas. (Southern.)
BY A CONFEDERATE SOLDIER
Alas! the weary hours pass slow,
The night is very dark and still; And in the marshes far below
I hear the bearded whippoorwill; I scarce can see a yard ahead,
My ears are strained to catch each sound; I hear the leaves about me shed,
And the spring's bubbling through the ground.
Along the beaten path I pace,
Where white rays mark my sentry's track; In formless shrubs I seem to trace
The foeman's form with bending back, I think I see him crouching low;
I stop and list-I stoop and peer, Until the neighboring hillocks grow
To groups of soldiers far and near.
With ready piece I wait and watch,
Until my eyes, familiar grown, Detect each harmless earthen notch,
And turn guerrillas into stone; And then, amid the lonely gloom,
Beneath the tall old chestnut trees, My silent marches I resume,
And think of other times than these.
Sweet visions through the silent night!
The deep bay windows fringed with vine, The room within, in softened light,
The tender, milk-white hand in mine; The timid pressure, and the pause
That often overcame our speechThe time when by mysterious laws
We each felt all in all to each.
And then that bitter, bitter day,
When came the final hour to part; When, clad in soldier's honest gray,
I pressed her weeping to my heart; Too proud of me to bid me stay,
Too fond of me to let me go, I had to tear myself away,
And left her, stolid in my woe.
So rose the dream, so passed the night
When, distant in the darksome glen, Approaching up the somber height
I heard the solid march of men; Till over stubble, over sward,
And fields where lay the golden sheaf,