Our brave mountain eagles swoop from their eyrie,
Our lithe panthers leap from forest and plain;
Out of the West flash the flames of the prairie,
Out of the East roll the waves of the main.
Down from their Northern shores,

Swift as Niagara pours,

They march, and their tread wakes the earth with its jar; Under the Stripes and Stars,

Each with the soul of Mars, Grasping the bolts of the thunders of war!

Spite of the sword or assassin's stiletto,

While throbs a heart in the breast of the brave,
The oak of the North, or the Southern palmetto,
Shall shelter no foe except in the grave!
While the Gulf billow breaks,

Echoing the Northern lakes,

And ocean replies unto ocean afar,
Yield we no inch of land

While there's a patriot hand

Grasping the bolts of the thunders of war!

A shudder shot through every vein
All eyes were turned on high!
There stood the boy, with dizzy brain,
Between the sea and sky;

No hold had he above, below-
Alone he stood in air:

To that far height none dared to go-
No aid could reach him there.

We gazed, but not a man could speak!
With horror all aghast -

In groups, with pallid brow and cheek,
We watched the quivering mast.
The atmosphere grew thick and hot,
And of a lurid hue-

As riveted unto the spot

Stood officers and crew.

The father came on deck: he gasped,
"O God, thy will be done!"
Then suddenly a rifle grasped,
And aimed it at his son.

"Jump, far out, boy, into the wave!

Jump, or I fire," he said;

"That only chance your life can save: Jump, jump, boy!" He-obeyed.

He sankhe rose-he lived he moved-
And for the ship struck out:

On board we hailed the lad beloved,
With many a manly shout.

His father drew, in silent joy,

Those wet arms round his neck,

And folded to his heart his boy –

Then fainted on the deck.

THE SLEEPING SENTINEL.

The incidents here woven into verse relate to William Scott, a young soldier from the State of Vermont, who, while on duty as a sentinel at night, fell asleep, and, having been condemned to die, was pardoned by the President. They form a brief record of his humble life at home and in the field, and of his glorious death.

Tי

WAS in the sultry summer-time, as War's red records show, When patriot armies rose to meet a fratricidal foe— When, from the North and East and West, like the upheaving sea, Swept forth Columbia's sons, to make our country truly free.

Within a prison's dismal walls, where shadows veil'd decay,
In fetters, on a heap of straw, a youthful soldier lay:
Heart-broken, hopeless, and forlorn, with short and feverish
breath,

He waited but the appointed hour to die a culprit's death.

Yet, but a few brief weeks before, untroubled with a care,
He roam'd at will, and freely drew his native mountain air —
Where sparkling streams leap mossy rocks, from many a wood-
land font,

And waving elms and grassy slopes give beauty to Vermont!

Where, dwelling in an humble cot, a tiller of the soil,
Encircled by a mother's love, he shared a father's toil
Till, borne upon the wailing winds, his suffering country's cry
Fired his young heart with fervent zeal for her to live or die.

Then left he all: a few fond tears, by firmness half conceal'd,
A blessing, and a parting prayer, and he was in the field –
The field of strife, whose dews are blood, whose breezes War's

hot breath,

Whose fruits are garner'd in the grave, whose husbandman is Death!

Without a murmur, he endured a service new and hard;

But, wearied with a toilsome march, it chanced one night, on

guard,

He sank exhausted at his post, and the gray morning found
His prostrate form a sentinel, asleep, upon the ground!

So, in the silence of the night, aweary, on the sod

Sank the disciples, watching near the suffering Son of God;
Yet, Jesus, with compassion moved, beheld their heavy eyes,
And, though betray'd to ruthless foes, forgiving, bade them rise!

But God is love- and finite minds can faintly comprehend How gentle Mercy, in His rule, may with stern Justice blend; And this poor soldier, seized and bound, found none to justify, While War's inexorable law decreed that he must die.

'Twas night. In a secluded room, with measured tread, and slow,

A statesman of commanding mien paced gravely to and fro:
Oppress'd, he pondered on a land by civil discord rent;
On brothers arm'd in deadly strife: it was the President!

The woes of thirty millions fill'd his burden'd heart with grief;
Embattled hosts, on land and sea, acknowledged him their chief;
And yet, amid the din of war, he heard the plaintive cry
Of that poor soldier, as he lay in prison, doom'd to die!

'T was morning. On a tented field, and through the heated haze, Flash'd back, from lines of burnished arms, the sun's effulgent

blaze;

While, from a sombre prison-house, seen slowly to emerge,
A sad procession, o'er the sward, moved to a muffled dirge.

And in the midst, with faltering step, and pale and anxious face, In manacles, between two guards, a soldier had his place:

A youth-led out to die; and yet, it was not death, but shame, That smote his gallant heart with dread, and shook his manly frame!

Still on, before the marshall'd ranks, the train pursued its way Up to the designated spot, whereon a coffin lay—

His coffin! And, with reeling brain, despairing-desolate He took his station by its side, abandon'd to his fate!

Then came across his wavering sight strange pictures in the air:

He saw his distant mountain home; he saw his mother there;
He saw his father bow'd with grief, through fast-declining years;
He saw a nameless grave; and then, the vision closed-in tears!

Yet, once again: In double file, advancing, then, he saw
Twelve comrades, sternly set apart to execute the law;
But saw no more: his senses swam

round

deep darkness settled

And, shuddering, he awaited now the fatal volley's sound!

Then suddenly was heard the noise of steeds and wheels approach

And, rolling through a cloud of dust, appeared a stately coach: On, past the guards, and through the field, its rapid course was

bent,

Till, halting, 'mid the lines was seen the nation's President!

He came to save that stricken soul, now waking from despair;
And from a thousand voices rose a shout which rent the air!
The pardon'd soldier understood the tones of jubilee,
And, bounding from his fetters, bless'd the hand that made him
free!

'T was spring.

tide

Within a verdant vale, where Warwick's crystal

Reflected, o'er its peaceful breast, fair fields on either side — Where birds and flowers combined to cheer a sylvan solitudeTwo threatening armies, face to face, in fierce defiance stood!

Two threatening armies! —one invoked by injured Liberty,
Which bore above its patriot ranks the Symbol of the Free;
And one, a rebel horde, beneath a flaunting flag of bars,
A fragment, torn by traitorous hands, from Freedom's Stripes
and Stars!