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So with an equal splendor
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch, impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all ;-
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment-day;
'Broidered with gold, the Blue ;
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth,

On forest and field of grain
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain;

Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Wet with the rain, the Blue;
Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done;

In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won ;

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DAUGHTER of God! that sitt'st on high
Amid the dances of the sky,
And guidest with thy gentle sway
The planets on their tuneful way ;

Sweet Peace! shall ne'er again
The smile of thy most holy face,
From thine ethereal dwelling-place,
Rejoice the wretched, weary race

Of discord-breathing men? Too long, O gladness-giving Queen! Thy tarrying in heaven has been ; Too long o'er this fair blooming world The flag of blood has been unfurled,

Polluting God's pure day;

Whilst, as each maddening people reels, War onward drives his scythed wheels, And at his horses' bloody heels

Shriek Murder and Dismay.

Oft have I wept to hear the cry
Of widow wailing bitterly;
To see the parent's silent tear

For children fallen beneath the spear;
And I have felt so sore

The sense of human guilt and woe,
That I, in Virtue's passioned glow,
Have cursed (my soul was wounded so)
The shape of man I bore!

Then come from thy serene abode,
Thou gladness-giving child of God!
And cease the world's ensanguined strife,
And reconcile my soul to life;

For much I long to see,
Ere I shall to the grave descend,
Thy hand its blessed branch extend,
And to the world's remotest end
Wave Love and Harmony!


Now all is calm and fresh and still;

Alone the chirp of flitting bird,

And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain ; Men start not at the battle-cry,

O, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year;
A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front and flank and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown, - yet faint thon not.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,

The victory of endurance born.
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again,
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among his worshippers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here!

Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

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ENGLAND, I stand on thy imperial ground
Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow,
I feel within my blood old battles flow,-
The blood whose ancient founts are in thee found
Still surging dark against the Christian bound

While Islam presses; well its peoples know
Thy heights that watch them wandering below:
I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound.

I turn and meet the cruel, turbaned face.

England! 'tis sweet to be so much thy son! I feel the conqueror in my blood and race; Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to-day Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun Startles the desert over Africa.

Thou art the rock of empire set mid-seas
Between the East and West, that God has buit;
Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt,

While run thy armies true with his decrees;
Law, justice, liberty,- great gifts are these.

Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt, Lest, mixed and sullied with his country's guilt The soldier's life-stream flow, and Heaven displease!

Two swords there are: one naked, apt to smite,
Thy blade of war; and, battle-storied, one
Rejoices in the sheath, and hides from light.
American I am; would wars were done!
Now westward, look, my country bids good night,-
Peace to the world, from ports without a gun!


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THE softest whisperings of the scented South,
And rust and roses in the cannon's mouth;

And, where the thunders of the fight were born,
The wind's sweet tenor in the standing corn;

With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam,
And blue skies bending over love and home.

But still the thought: Somewhere,-upon the hills,
Or where the vales ring with the whip-poor-wills,

Sad wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat
For the loved sound of unreturning feet,

And, when the oaks their leafy banners wave,
Dream of the battle and an unmarked grave!


Nor let the reeking knife, That I have drawn against a brother's life, Be in my hand when Death Thunders along, and tramples me beneath His heavy squadron's heels, Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels.

From such a dying bed,

Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red,

And the bald eagle brings

The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings To sparkle in my sight,

O, never let my spirit take her flight!

I know that beauty's eye

Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly,
And brazen helmets dance,

And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance;
I know that bards have sung,
And people shouted till the welkin rung,
In honor of the brave

Who on the battle-field have found a grave;
I know that o'er their bones

Have grateful hands piled monumental stones.
Some of those piles I've seen :
The one at Lexington upon the green

Where the first blood was shed,

And to my country's independence led;
And others, on our shore,
The "Battle Monument " at Baltimore,
And that on Bunker's Hill.
Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still;
Thy "tomb," Themistocles,
That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,
And which the waters kiss

That issue from the gulf of Salamis.

And thine, too, have I seen,

Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green,
That, like a natural knoll,

Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll,
Watched by some turbaned boy,

Upon the margin of the plain of Troy.

Such honors grace the bed,

I know, whereon the warrior lays his head,
And hears, as life ebbs out,

The conquered flying, and the conqueror's shout;
But as his eye grows dim,

What is a column or a mound to him?
What, to the parting soul,

The mellow note of bugles? What the roll
Of drums! No, let me die

Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly,
And the soft summer air,

As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair,
And from my forehead dries

The death-damp as it gathers, and the skies
Seem waiting to receive

My soul to their clear depths! Or let me leave

The world when round my bed
Wife, children, weeping friends are gathered,
And the calm voice of prayer

And holy hymning shall my soul prepare
To go and be at rest

With kindred spirits, spirits who have blessed
The human brotherhood

By labors, cares, and counsels for their good. JOHN PIERPONT.


ON woodlands ruddy with autumn
The amber sunshine lies;

I look on the beauty round me,
And tears come into my eyes.

For the wind that sweeps the meadows Blows out of the far Southwest, Where our gallant men are fighting, And the gallant dead are at rest.

The golden-rod is leaning,

And the purple aster waves In a breeze from the land of battles, A breath from the land of graves.

Full fast the leaves are dropping Before that wandering breath ; As fast, on the field of battle,

Our brethren fall in death.

Beautiful over my pathway

The forest spoils are shed; They are spotting the grassy hillocks With purple and gold and red.

Beautiful is the death-sleep
Of those who bravely fight
In their country's holy quarrel,
And perish for the Right.

But who shall comfort the living,

The light of whose homes is gone : The bride that, early widowed,

Lives broken-hearted on;

The matron whose sons are lying
In graves on a distant shore;
The maiden, whose promised husband
Comes back from the war no more?

I look on the peaceful dwellings Whose windows glimmer in sight, With croft and garden and orchard That bask in the mellow light;

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