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Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, their lying alarms, Bugles and drums in the darkness, and shoutings and sound

ings to arms; Ever the labor of fifty that had to be done by five, Ever the marvel among us that one should be left alive, Ever the day with its traitorous death from the loopholes

round, Ever the night with its coffinless corpse to be laid in the ground; Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge of cataract skies, Stench of old offal decaying, and infinite torment of flies, Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing over an English field, Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound that would not be heal’d, Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful-pitiless knife,Torture and trouble in vain – for it never could save us a

life ; Valor of delicate women who tended the hospital bed, Horror of women in travail among the dying and dead, Grief for our perishing children, and never a moment for grief, Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering hopes of relief, Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butcher'd for all that we

knew Then day and night, day and night, coming down on the still

shatter'd walls, Millions of musket-bullets, and thousands of cannon-balls — But ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.

Hark! cannonade, fusilade ! is it true what was told by the

scoutOutram and Havelock breaking their way through the fell

mutineers ? Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing again in our ears ! All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout, Havelock's glorious Highlanders answer with conquering

cheers, Sick from the hospital echo them, women and children come

out, Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock's good fusil

eers, Kissing the war-harden'd hand of the Highlander wet with

their tears ! Dance to the pibroch! - saved ! we are saved !- is it you ?

is it you? Saved by the valor of Havelock, saved by the blessing of

Heaven! "Hold it for fifteen days ! ” we have held it for eighty-seven ! And ever aloft over the palace roof the old banner of England blew.


SONG OF THE CAMP “ GIVE us a song !” the soldiers cried,

The outer trenches guarding,
When the heated guns of the camps allied

Grew weary of bombarding.
The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay grim and threatening under ;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff

No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said:

“We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day

Will bring enough of sorrow.” . They lay along the battery's side,

Below the smoking cannon : Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,

And from the banks of Shannon.
They sang of love, and not of fame;

Forgot was Britain's glory :
Each heart recalled a different name,

But all sang “Annie Laurie.”
Voice after voice caught up the song,

Until its tender passion
Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, -

Their battle-eve confession. Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,

But as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek

Washed off the stains of powder. Beyond the darkening ocean burned

The bloody sunset's embers, While the Crimean valleys learned

How English love remembers.
And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters,
With scream of shot, and burst of shell,

And bellowing of the mortars.
And Irish Norah's eyes are dim

For a singer dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him

Who sang of “ Annie Laurie.”

Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest

Your truth and valor wearing :
The bravest are the tenderest —
The loving are the daring.


In their ragged regimentals
Stood the old Continentals,

Yielding not,
When the grenadiers were lunging,
And like hail fell the plunging

Cannon-shot !
When the files

Of the isles, From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampant

Unicorn, And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drummer,

Through the morn!

Then with eyes to the front all,
And with guns horizontal,

Stood our sires;
And the balls whistled deadly,
And in streams flashing redly

Blazed the fires;
As the roar

On the shore,
Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres

Of the plain;
And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder,

Cracking amain!
Now like smiths at their forges
Worked the red St. George's

And the “villainous saltpetre”
Rung a fierce, discordant metre :

Round their ears;
As the swift

With hot sweeping anger, came the horse guards' clangor

On our flanks;
Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire

Through the ranks!

Then the old-fashioned colonel
Galloped through the white infernal

And his broad sword was swinging,
And his brazen throat was ringing

Trumpet loud.
Then the blue

Bullets flew,
And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden

And rounder rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder,
Hurling death!

MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord :
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath

are stored ; He hath loosed the fateful lightnings of his terrible swift sword :

His truth is marching on. I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps ; They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and

damps; I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps :

His day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel : “As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall

deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,

Since God is marching on.” He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call re

treat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat; O, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet!

Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me;
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.

THE despot's heel is on thy shore,

Maryland !
His torch is at thy temple door,

Maryland !

wilt not contand all never

Avenge the patriotic gore
That flecked the streets of Baltimore,
And be the battle queen of yore,

Maryland, my Maryland !
Hark to an exiled son's appeal,

My Mother State, to thee I kneel,

Maryland !
For life or death, for woe or weal,
Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,

Maryland, my Maryland !
Thou wilt not cower in the dust,

Thy beaming sword shall never rust,

Maryland !
Remember Carroll's sacred trust,
Remember Howard's warlike thrust,
And all thy slumberers with the just,

Maryland, my Maryland!
Come ! 't is the red dawn of the day,

Come with thy panoplied array,

With Ringgold's spirit for the fray,
With Watson's blood at Monterey,
With fearless Lowe and dashing May,

Maryland, my Maryland !
Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain,

Maryland !
Virginia should not call in vain,

Maryland !
She meets her sisters on the plain,
Sic semper /" 't is the proud refrain
That baffles minions back amain,

Maryland !
Arise in majesty again,

Maryland, my Maryland ! Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong,

Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,

Maryland !
Come to thine own heroic throng
Stalking with Liberty along,
And chant thy dauntless slogan-song.

Maryland, my Maryland !

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