“EIN' FESTE BURG IST UNSER GOTT." 61
God lifts to-day the veil, and shows The features of the demon!
O North and South!
Its victims both,
Can ye not cry,
"Let Slavery die!"
And Union find in freedom?
What though the cast-out spirit tear The nation in his going?
We who have shared the guilt must share The pang of his o'erthrowing!
Whate'er the loss,
Whate'er the cross, Shall they complain Of present pain,
Who trust in God's hereafter ?
For who that leans on His right aim Was ever yet forsaken ? What righteous cause can suffer harm, If He its part has taken ? Though wild and loud, And dark the cloud, Behind its folds
His hand upholds
The calm sky of to-morrow!
Above the maddening cry for blood, Above the wild war-drumming, Let Freedom's voice be heard, with good The evil overcoming.
Give prayer and purse To stay The Curse,
Whose wrong we share, Whose shame we bear,
Whose end shall gladden Heaven!
In vain the bells of war shall ring Of triumphs and revenges,
While still is spared the evil thing That severs and estranges.
But, blest the ear That yet shall hear The jubilant bell That rings the knell
Of Slavery forever!
Then let the selfish lip be dumb, And hushed the breath of sighing; Before the joy of peace must come The pains of purifying. God give us grace, Each in his place To bear his lot,
And, murmuring not,
Endure, and wait, and labor!
ON HIS ELECTION AS PRESIDENT FOR SIX YEARS.*
SATAN was chained a thousand years, We learn from Revelation That he might not, as it appears, Longer "deceive the nation." 'T is hard to say, between the two, Which is the greater evil, Six years of liberty, for you - A thousand for the devil!
'Tis passing strange, if you've no fears, Of being hanged within six years!
A hundred thousand rebels' ears Would not one half repay The widows' and the orphans' tears, Shed for the slain to-day: The blood of all those gallant braves, Whom Southern traitors slew, Cries sternly, from their loyal graves, For vengeance upon you; And if you 're not prepared to die The death of Haman, fly, Jeff, fly!
Fly, traitor, to some lonely niche, Far, far beyond the billow; Thy grave an ill-constructed ditch- Thy sexton General Pillow. There may you turn to rottenness, By mortal unannoyed, Your ashes undisturbed, unless
Your grave is known by Floyd. He'll surely trouble your repose, And come to steal your burial-clothes.
Pause for an instant, loyal reader. Here lies Jeff, the great seceder. Above, he always lied, you know, And now the traitor lies below. His bow was furnished with two strings, He flattered crowds, and fawned on kings; Repaid his country's care with evil, And prayed to God, and served the devil. The South could whip the Yankee nation, So he proposed humiliation!
Their blessings were so everlasting,
'T was just the time for prayer and fasting! The record may be searched in vain, From West-Point Benedict to Cain, To find a more atrocious knave, Unless in Cæsar Borgia's grave.
On hearing that the Confederate troops had said that "Fewer of the Massachusetts officers would have been killed if they had not been too proud to surrender."
AY, deem us proud! for we are more Than proud of all our mighty dead; Proud of the bleak and rock-bound shore A crowned oppressor cannot tread.
Proud of each rock and wood and glen, Of every river, lake, and plain ; Proud of the calm and earnest men Who claim the right and will to reign.
Proud of the men who gave us birth, Who battled with the stormy wave, To sweep the red man from the earth, And build their homes upon his grave.
Proud of the holy summer morn, They traced in blood upon its sod; The rights of freemen yet unborn, Proud of their language and their God.
Proud, that beneath our proudest dome, And round the cottage-cradled hearth, There is a welcome and a home For every stricken race on earth.
Proud that yon slowly sinking sun Saw drowning lips grow white in prayer,
O'er such brief acts of duty done As honor gathers from despair.
Pride, 't is our watchword, "Clear the boats!" "Holmes, Putnam, Bartlett, Pierson - here!" And while this crazy wherry floats,
"Let's save our wounded!" cries Revere.
Old State - some souls are rudely sped This record for thy Twentieth corps, Imprisoned, wounded, dying, dead, It only asks, " Has Sparta more?"
Boston Post, NΝου. 23, 1861.
SEWARD, qui est Rerum cantor Publicarum, atque Lincoln, Vir excelsior, mitigantur
A delightful thing to think on.
Blatat Plebs Americana,
Quite impossible to bridle.
Nihil refert; navis cana
Brings back Mason atque Slidell.
Scribit nunc amæne Russell;
Lætuslapis claudit fiscum;
Nunc finitur omnis bustle.
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