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Hung over field and city: now everywhere is seen,
In place of that white quietness, a sudden glow of


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 Aush

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

can be!

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

the Right!


July 21, 1861


They have met at last-as storm-clouds

Meet in heaven,
And the Northmen back and bleeding

Have been driven:
And their thunders have been stilled,
And their leaders crushed or killed,
And their ranks with terror thrilled,

Rent and riven!

Like the leaves of Vallombrosa

They are lying;
In the moonlight, in the midnight,

Dead and dying;
Like those leaves before the gale,
Swept their legion, wild and pale;
While the host that made them quail

Stood, defying

When aloft in morning sunlight

Flags were flaunted,
And “swift vengeance on the rebel”

Proudly vaunted;
Little did they think that night
Should close upon their shameful flight,
And rebels, victors in the fight,

Stand undaunted.

But peace to those who perished

In our passes !
Light be the earth above them;

Green the grasses !
Long shall Northmen rue the day
When they met our stern array,
And shrunk from battle's wild affray

At Manassas. (Southern.)



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,

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