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And Husband, and Etheridge, and Harlan and
Case, Livermore, Alcott, Hancock and Chase, And Turner, and Hawley, and Potter and Hall. Ah! the list grows apace, as they come at the call. Did these women quail at the sight of a gun? Will some soldier tell us of one he saw run? Will he glance at the boats on the great western
flood, At Pittsburg and Shiloh, did they faint at the blood? And the brave wife of Grant stood there with them
then, And her calm stately presence gave strength to his
Imagine their skirts 'mong artillery wheels,
field When the charge is rammed home and the fire
belches hot; They never will wait for the answering shot. They would faint at the first drop of blood in their
sight, What fun for us boys,-(ere we enter the fight); They might pick some lint, and tear up some sheets, And make us some jellies, and send on their
sweets, And knit some soft socks for Uncle Sam's shoes, And write us some letters, and tell us the news. And thus it was settled, by common consent, That husbands, or brothers, or whoever went, That the place for the women was in their own
homes, There to patiently wait until victory comes. But later it chanced-just how, no one knewThat the lines slipped a bit, and some 'gan to
crowd through; And they went,—where did they go ?-Ah! where
did they not? Show us the battle, the field, or the spot Where the groans of the wounded rang out on the
air That her ear caught it not, and her hand was not
there; Who wiped the death sweat from the cold, clammy
brow, And sent home the message:—"'Tis well with him
now;' Who watched in the tents whilst the fever fires
burned, And the pain tossing limbs in agony turned; Who wet the parched tongue, calmed delirium's
strife Till the dying lips murmured, “My mother," "My
wife.” And who were they all ?—They were many, my
And Marie of Logan: she went with them too;
ers ride. Where the “Black Eagle" soars, she is close at
his side; She staunches his blood, cools his fever-burnt
breath, And the wave of her hand stays the Angel of
She has smoothed his black plumes and laid them
to sleep, Whilst the angels above them their high vigils
keep: And she sits here alone, with the snow on her
browYour cheers for her, Comrades! Three cheers for
her now. And these were the women who went to the war: The women of question; what did they go for? Because in their hearts God had planted the seed Of pity for woe, and help for its need; They saw, in high purpose, a duty to do, And the armor of right broke the barriers through. Uninvited, unaided, unsanctioned ofttimes, With pass, or without it, they pressed on the lines; They pressed, they implored, 'till they ran the
lines through, And that was the “running" the men saw them
do. 'Twas a hampered work, its worth largely lost; 'Twas hindrance, and pain, and effort, and cost; But through these came knowledge, -knowledge
is power, And never again in the deadliest hour Of war or of peace shall we be so beset To accomplish the purpose our spirits have met. And what would they do if war came again? The scarlet cross floats where all was blank then.
Their records were kept by no tabular pen:
A few names were writ, and by chance live to-day;
They wound bind on their “brassards" and march
to the fray. And the man liveth not who could say to them nay; They would stand with you now, as they stood with
you then, The nurses, consolers, and saviors of men.
HARK! I hear the tramp of thousands,
And of armed men the hum;
Freemen, come! Ere your heritage be wasted,” said the quick
“Let me of my heart take counsel:
War is not of life the sum;
But the drum
Echoed: “Come! Death shall reap the braver harvest,” said the
The morning May-beams lean'd on Hilda's brows,
“But when won the coming battle,
What of profit springs therefrom?
But the drum
Answered: “Come! You must do the sum to prove it,” said the
“What if, 'mid the cannon's thunder,
Whistling shot and bursting bomb,
But the drum
Answered: “Come! Better there in death united than in life a rec
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, answered: “Lord, we come!”
As when a rough wind wakes the sleeping sea,
Alas! that she
Now, in her dream The darkness lifts, and small white bands move
past. Fray'd, tattered shapes of things, she knew not
what. She looks, and in a creeping mist she sees, Far off, a pale-blue light, and in its raysAs 'twere a living thing—a coffin looms: And reeling, swaying, nearer, nearer still, And nearer yet, it stays beside her bed. Cold horror seizes her, her blood grows chill, She cannot screem, she can but stare, and see The husband of her love in grave-clothes clad, In coffin standing upright by her side; His eyes with life's last look fix'd stonily On her; the long white arms, the fingers pale And shrivell’d of the dead, outstretch'd at her; The blue lips moving, giving forth no sound, Yet-seemingly to thought-upbraiding her. She clasps her troubled hands, she gasps for breath, She moans with anguish in her awful sleep. Clouds fill the chamber; now a wide expanse Before her eyes. From out the coffin glides The corpse, thrice waves his wan weird arms, and
lo! With noiseless tread lean dancing shapes appear, Strange things to sight, like toeless human feet Divorced from parent limbs with horrid knife, Or wrench'd apart: each ghostly foot with rents And deep-mouth'd cuts disfigured.
And now amidst that spectral company,
fray'd, Unsewn, undarn'd, unmended, full of holes!
The coffin disappears. The glow of life
Her husband-he is standing there-
“My Hilda, love, these ties!
W. Wilsy MARTIN.
To the right, Grim sallow forms steal on like human legs, Faint legs without their feet, a gruesome crew: And as they dance before her wilder'd eyes A lurid light gleams through their rended skins; Some limbs dance by in groups, but here and there A single limb imid others madly whirls. They pause; again the pale corpse waves his arms; Forms more uncouth, more ghostly, cluster in, Sweeping with gliding motion past her eyes; Blanch'd human bodies without heads or legs, They join the dance, they wildly toss their arms, Their handless arms, and ever point at her Their jagged wrists, while charnel lights illume Their gaping wounds and lacerated fronts.
Four rounded centuries have rolled
Upon Time's ceaseless flood, Since hero brave and seaman bold,
Led by a thought from God, Sailed out upon the boundless main
Across a trackless sea.
The Home of Liberty.
To-day, a nation wondrous fair
Is basking 'neath the sun; In scarlet, gold and purple rare,
Her robes she hath put on To celebrate in rich estate,
With heart and form aglow, The landing of that hero great
Four hundred years ago.
When 'merging from the billows high,
The welcome shore appeared, With shouts that echoed from the sky,
Those toilworn seamen cheered; Could anthems backward roll to-day,
The corridors of Time Would ring with praises, all the way
In tribute mete, sublime.
WHAT,-Barrett dead? How soon life's play is
And now he to the dim Unknown has passed,
Or, bending low, received his last good-bye,
die. “Ave et vale!" is our despairing cry;
And the dark curtain falls upon the scene. Never again, O Elk with kingly mein,
Shall we behold the splendor of thine eye! But to thy shade I raise this glass of mine; Pledge me, my brother! in death's dregless wine.
But ah! the dead may never hear
The praises that we sing;
From offerings we bring;
We rear above the breast,
From those laid low in rest.
Our cities grand they may not see
Our garden land abloom;-
No echo from the tomb.
Once on the march to-day,
In silence laid away.
'Too commonplace!" the critic hath averred.
Or having sought it, should have been denied.”
This ice-cold breath from censure's realm so wide, Blighted sweet promise; henceforth, songless bird! Yet undismayed, the simple message sped
To many waiting hearts on land and sea,
Meeting their needs; and some with bended head Gave thanks for song which they could compre
hend. As in His Heaven there many mansions be So on His earth are minds and minds, oh, friend.
MARY E. IRELAND.
Then, while the gathered hosts rejoice,
Rallied from sea to sea-
Swell triumphs of the free,
Let us adore the Giver,
And watches o'er us ever.
IF I WERE ONLY YOUNG.
If I were only young
The rose should blush a ruby red,
Its petals wide their beauty spread
Then hail! to fair Columbia
Her heroes passed away;
With heroes of to-day.
Her sons and daughters show
Lucy H. WASHINGTON.
If I were only young
In gleaming silks and satins bright,
To be a glory in thy sight