BEYOND THE POTOMAC.

They rose with the sun, and caught life from his light,
Those giants of courage, those Anaks in fight,
And they laughed out aloud in the joy of their might,
Marching swift for the River.

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On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills,
On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills, -
And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant and thrills
At the thought of the River.

On! the sheen of their swords! the fierce gleam of their eyes

It seemed as on earth a new sunlight would rise,
And king-like, flash up to the sun in the skies,

O'er the path to the River.

But their banners, shot-scarred, and all darkened with gore,

On a strong wind of morning streamed wildly before, Like the wings of Death-angels swept fast to the shore, – green shore of the River.

The

from the hill-side, the hamlet, the

Gaunt throngs whom the Foeman had manacled, teem,
Like men just roused from some terrible dream,
To pass o'er the River.

They behold the broad banners, blood-darkened, yet fair
And a moment dissolves the last spell of despair,
While a peal as of victory swells on the air,
Rolling out to the River.

And that cry, with a thousand strange echoings spread,
Till the ashes of heroes seemed stirred in their bed,
And the deep voice of passion surged up from the dead,—
Ay! press on to the River.

On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills,
On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills,
And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and
thrills,

As they pause by the River.

Then the wan face of Maryland, haggard and worn,
At that sight, lost the touch of its aspect forlorn,
And she turned on the Foeman full statured in scorn,
Pointing stern to the River.

And Potomac flowed calm, scarcely heaving her breast,
With her low-lying billows all bright in the west,
For the hand of the Lord lulled the waters to rest
Of the fair rolling River.

Passed! passed! the glad thousands march safe through the tide.

(Hark, Despot! and hear the wild knell of your pride, Ringing weird-like and wild, pealing up from the side Of the calm-flowing River.)

'Neath a blow swift and mighty the Tyrant shall fall :
Vain! vain! to his God swells a desolate call,
For his grave has been hollowed, and woven his pall,
Since they passed o'er the River.

THE OLD RIFLEMAN.

BY FRANK TICKNOR, M. D.

Now, bring me out my buckskin suit!
My pouch and powder, too!

We'll see if seventy-six can shoot
As sixteen used to do.

THE OLD RIFLEMAN.

Old Bess! we've kept our barrels bright!

Our triggers quick and true!

As far, if not as fine a sight,
As long ago we drew!

And pick me out a trusty flint!

A real white and blue; Perhaps 't will win the other tint Before the hunt is through!

Give boys your brass percussion-caps!
Old "shut-pan" suits as well!
There's something in the sparks; perhaps
There's something in the smell!

We've seen the red-coat Briton bleed!
The red-skin Indian too!

We never thought to draw a bead
On Yankee-doodle-doo!

But, Bessie! bless your dear old heart!
Those days are mostly done;
And now we must revive the art
Of shooting on the run!

If Doodle must be meddling, why,
There's only this to do,
Select the black spot in his eye
And let the daylight through!

And if he does n't like the way
That Bess presents the view,
He'll, maybe, change his mind and stay
Where the good Doodles do!

Where Lincoln lives. The man, you know,
Who kissed the Testament;

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To keep the Constitution? No!

To keep the Government!

We'll hunt for Lincoln, Bess! old tool,

And take him half and half;

We'll aim to hit him, if a fool,

And miss him, if a calf!

We'll teach these shot-gun boys the tricks
By which a war is won;
Especially how seventy-six
Took Tories on the run.

"SOUTHRONS."

You can never win them back
Never! never!

Though they perish on the track
Of your endeavor;

Though their corses strew the earth
That SMILED upon their birth,
And blood pollutes each hearth-
Stone forever!

They have risen to a man,
Stern and fearless;

Of your curses and your ban
They are careless.

Every hand is on its knife,

Every gun is primed for strife,
Every PALM contains a life,

High and peerless!

You have no such blood as theirs
For the shedding :

But the battle to the strong
Is not given,

When the Judge of Right and Wrong
Sits in heaven;

And the God of David still

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THE GUERILLAS.*

AWAKE and to horse, my brothers!
For the dawn is glimmering gray;
And hark! in the crackling brushwood
There are feet that tread this way.

* These stirring verses, which we copy from a Southern exchange, are from the patriotic pen of a lady of Kentucky, who has achieved a national reputation as a poetess and authoress. - -Louisville Courier.