Hung over field and city: now everywhere is seen, green. 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 bloom. 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 blue. 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 man. 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 arm! 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 shed. 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! MANASSAS 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; Stood, defying. When aloft in morning sunlight Flags were flaunted, Proudly vaunted; Stand undaunted. But peace to those who perished In our passes ! Green the grasses ! At Manassas. (Southern.) THE COUNTERSIGN 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, |