H THE RÉVEILLE. BY BRET HARTE. ARK! I hear the tramp of thousands, And of arméd men the hum; Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered Round the quick-alarming drumSaying: "Come, Freemen, come! Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick-alarming drum. "Let me of my heart take counsel: War is not of life the sum ; Who shall stay and reap the harvest When the autumn days shall come?" Echoed: "Come! Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn sounding drum. "But when won the coming battle, What of profit springs therefrom? What if conquest, subjugation, Even greater ills become?" But the drum Answered: "Come! You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankeeanswering drum. "What if, 'mid the cannon's thunder, Whistling shot and bursting bomb, When my brothers fall around me, Should my heart grow cold and numb?” Answered: "Come! Better there in death united than in life a recreant -Come!" Thus they answered-hoping, fearing, Some in faith and doubting some, Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming, Said: "My chosen people, come!" Then the drum, Lo! was dumb; For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, an swered: "Lord, we come!" [The author of this poem was a sergeant in the 140th regiment of New York volunteers, who died at the age of 25 years, at Potomac Station, Va., December 28, 1862. -EDITOR.] HE morning is cheery, my boys, arouse ! THE The dew shines bright on the chestnut boughs, Though the east is flushing with crimson dyes. O'er field and wood and brake, With glories newly born, Comes on the blushing morn. You have dreamed of your homes and friends all night; You have basked in your sweethearts' smiles so bright; Come, part with them all for a while again,— You have dreamed full long, I know. Turn out! turn out! From every valley and hill they come Every man in his place IT That like a rose's corpse, full dry and wan, Its lustre dulled, its form and softness crushed, Among the kindling brands, as white as frost, Or from Mahomet's forehead fluttered fair The poet moralist Has ever taken sombre joy to sing Upon a theme so trist, And write in dust of roses lessons grim That pleasures must be snatched ere they grow dim For germs of death in folds of beauty cling; |