Knit they the gentle ties which long
These sister States were proud to wear,
And forged the kindly links so strong
For idle hands in sport to tear-
For scornful hands aside to throw ?
No, by our fathers' memory, No!

Our humming marts, our iron ways,

Our wind-tossed woods on mountain crest,

The hoarse Atlantic, with his bays,

The calm, broad Ocean of the West,

And Mississippi's torrent-flow,

And loud Niagara, answer, No!

Not yet the hour is nigh when they
Who deep in Eld's dim twilight sit,
Earth's ancient kings, shall rise and say,
Proud country, welcome to the pit!
So soon art thou, like us, brought low!"
No, sullen groups of shadows, No!

For now, behold, the arm that gave
The victory in our fathers' day,
Strong, as of old, to guard and save-

That mighty arm which none can stay-
On clouds above and fields below,
Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No!
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE BATTLE AUTUMN OF 1862.

THE flags of war like storm-birds fly,
The charging trumpets blow;
Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,
No earthquake strives below.

And calm and patient Nature keeps
Her ancient promise well,

Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps The battle's breath of hell.

And still she walks in golden hours

Through harvest-happy farms,

And still she wears her fruits and flowers
Like jewels on her arms.

What mean the gladness of the plain,

This joy of eve and morn,

The mirth that shakes the beard of grain,
And yellow locks of corn?

Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
And hearts with hate are hot;
But even-paced come round the years,
And Nature changes not.

She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
With songs our groans of pain;
She mocks with tint of flower and leaf
The war-field's crimson stain.

Still in the cannon's pause we hear
Her sweet thanksgiving psalm;
Too near to God for doubt or fear,
She shares the eternal calm.

She knows the seed lies safe below
The fires that blast and burn;
For all the tears of blood we sow,
She waits the rich return.

She sees, with clearer eye than ours,
The good of suffering born-

The hearts that blossom like her flowers,
And ripen like her corn.

Oh, give to us, in times like these,

The vision of her eyes;

And make her fields and fruited trees
Our golden prophecies!

Oh, give to us her finer ear!
Above this stormy din

We too would hear the bells of cheer
Ring peace and freedom in.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

NEVER OR NOW.

[1862.]

LISTEN, young heroes! your country is calling! Time strikes the hour for the brave and the true! Now, while the foremost are fighting and falling, Fill up the ranks that have opened for you!

You whom the fathers made free and defended, Stain not the scroll that emblazons their fame! You whose fair heritage spotless descended,

Leave not your children a birthright of shame!

Stay not for questions while Freedom stands gasping!

Wait not till Honor lies wrapped in his pall! Brief the lips' meeting be, swift the hands' clasping: "Off for the wars !" is enough for them all.

Break from the arms that would fondly caress you! Hark! 'tis the bugle-blast, sabres are drawn! Mothers shall pray for you, fathers shall bless you, Maidens shall weep for you when you are gone!

Never or now! cries the blood of a nation,

Poured on the turf where the red rose should

bloom;

Now is the day and the hour of salvation,—

Never or now! peals the trumpet of doom!

Never or now! roars the hoarse-throated cannon Through the black canopy blotting the skies; Never or now! flaps the shell-blasted pennon

O'er the deep ooze where the Cumberland lies! From the foul dens where our brothers are dying, Aliens and foes in the land of their birth,From the rank swamps where our martyrs are lying, Pleading in vain for a handful of earth,—

From the hot plains where they perish outnumbered, Furrowed and ridged by the battle-field's plough, Comes the loud summons; too long you have slumbered,

Hear the last Angel-trump-Never or Now! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

CLOUDS IN THE WEST.

HARK! on the wind that whistles from the West
A manly shout for instant succor comes,
From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast,
With rage-indented drums ;

Who dare for child, wife, country, stream and strand,
Though but a fraction to the swarming foe,
There, at the flooded gateways of the land,
To stem a torrent's flow.

To arms! brave sons of each embattled State,
Whose queenly standard is a Southern star :
Who would be free must ride the lists of Fate
On Freedom's victor-car !

Forsake the field, the shop, the mart, the hum
Of craven traffic, for the mustering clan :

The dead themselves are pledged that you shall

come

And prove yourself a man.

Blow, summoning trumpets, a compulsive stave
Through all the bounds from Beersheba to Dan;
Come out! come out! who scorns to be a slave,
Or claims to be a man!

Hark! on the breezes whistling from the West
A manly shout for instant succor comes,
From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast,
With rage-indented drums;

Who charge and cheer amid the murderous din,
Where still your battle-flags unbended wave,

Dying for what your fathers died to win,

And you must fight to save.

A. J. REQUIER.

A WORD WITH THE WEST.

[On the appointment of General Joseph E. Johnston to the command of the Confederate armies in the West, November, 1862.]

ONCE more to the breach for the Land of the West! And a leader we give, of our bravest and best,

Of his State and his army the pride;

Hope shines like the plume of Navarre on his crest,
And gleams in the glaive at his side.

For his courage is keen and his honor is bright
As the trusty Toledo he wears to the fight,
Newly wrought in the forges of Spain,

And this weapon, like all he has brandished for

Right,

Will never be dimmed by a stain.