Lay down the axe; fling by the spade;
       Leave in its track the toiling plough;
The rifle and the bayonet-blade
       For arms like yours were fitter now;
And let the arms that ply the pen
       Quit the light task, and learn to wield
The horseman's crooked brand, and rein
       The charger on the battle-field

Comrades known in marches many,
Comrades tried in dangers many,
Comrades bound by memories many,
       Brothers ever let us be.
Wounds or sickness may divide us,
Marching orders may divide us,
But whatever fate betide us,
       Brothers of the heart are we.
                     --CHARLES G. HALPINE.

       These men with flag in hand
Or eye to field-glass fixed, unmoved must stand,
When one false word, one swinging motion wrong,
Might change the fate of battles. Such is my song.
                     --ADIN BALLOU CAPRON.

       On yon height,
Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath:
       A signal rocket pierces the dense night,
Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath:
       Hark! the artillery massing on the right,
Hark! the black squadrons wheeling down to Death!
                     --THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

Where are the comrades once we knew
       When war swept o'er the land,
Who followed where bugles blew
       Their echoes of command?
In nameless graves lie some asleep,
       Buried where they were slain,
And some in ocean's mighty deep
       Forgotten long have lain.

My home is drear and still to-night,
       Where Shenandoah, murmuring, flows;
The Blue Ridge towers in the pale moonlight,
       And balmily the south-wind blows.
                     ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
What drew our hunters from the hills?
       They heard the hostile trumpets blow,
And leapt adown like April rill
       When Shenandoah roars below.
One, to the field where the old flag shines,
And one, alas! to the traitor lines!
My tears, -their fond arms round me thrown,-
And the house was hushed on the hillside lone.
                     ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I cannot part their lives and say,
       "This was the traitor, this the true;"
God only knows why one should stray,
       And one go pure death's portals through.
They have passed from their mother's clasp and care;
But my heart ascends in the yearning prayer
That His larger love will the two enfold,-
My Courtney fair and my Philip bold!
                     --EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

The Wind King from the North came down,
Nor stopped by river, mount, or town;
But, like a boisterous god at play
Resistless, bounding on his way
He shook the lake and tore the wood,
And flapped his wings in merry mood,
Nor furled them, till he spied afar
The white caps flash on Hatteras bar,
Where fierce Atlantic landward bowls
O'er treacherous sands and hidden shoals.
                            --JOSIAH W. HOLDEN.

All hail to thee, Ohio, lovely stream!
That sweepest, murmuring by, in holy dreams,
New cities, with their market-din profane,
Colossal rocks and fields of golden grain!
                     ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
See giant trees, thy axe forbore to smite,
Stretch out their arms, festooned in towering height,
With wanton serpent-flowers, -they suppliant stand,
Envoys of peace they came from forest land!
                     ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
But lo! by moonlight, yonder dead and bare,
A few old patriarchs lift their arms in air,
Like ghosts of veterans in the battle slain,
Wringing their hands and writhing on the plain!
                     --GRAF VON AUERSPERG.

Here let me pause, by the lone eagle's nest,
And breathe the golden sunlight and sweet air,
Which gird and gladden all this region fair
With a pepetual benison of rest.
                     ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Here, friend, upon this lofty ledge sit down,
And view the beautwous prospect spread below,
Around, above us; in the noonday glow
How calm the landscape rests! -you distant town,
Enwreathed with clouds of foliage, like a crown
Of rustic honor; the soft, silvery flow
Of the clear stream beyond it, and the show
Of endless wooded heights, circling the brown
Autumnal fields, alive with billowy grain; -
Say, hast thou ever gazed on aught more fair
In Europe or the Orient?
                     --PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

There was riding and railroading
       and expressing here and thither;
And the Martinsburg sharpshooters
       and the Charlestown Volunteers,
And the Shepherdstown and Whinchester
       Mailitia hastened whither
Old brown was said to muster
        his ten thousand grenadiers.
              General Brown!
       Ossawattomie Brown!
Behind whose rampant banner
       all the North was pouring down.

Farewell! our skies are darkened
       and yet the stars will shine,
We'll close our ranks together
       and still fall into line,
Till one is left, one only,
       to morn for all the rest;
And Heaven bequeath their memories
       to Him who loves us best!
                     --OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

  Move on the columns! Hesitate
       No longer what to plan or do;
       Our cause is good - our men are true -
The fight is for the Flag, the State,
       The Union, and the hopes of men;
       And Right will end what Wrong began,
For God the right will vindicate.
                     --W. D. GALLAGHER.

       In God's own might
We gird us for coming fight,
And, strong in Him whose cause is ours
In conflict with unholy powers,
We grasp the weapons He has given,--
The Light, and Truth, and Love of Heaven.

The lines that march deploying thro' the valleys
       Advance and then retreat,
The impetuous mass that up the hill-side sallies,
       Columns that part and meet --
Thine is their purpose and their destination;
       Thy stroke their guiding hand,
Whose gestures link in close communication
       Commander and command.
                     --CAROLINE STICKNEY.

From every valley and hill they came,
The clamoring voices of fife and drum;
And out in the cool, fresh, morning air
The soldiers are swarming everywhere.
       Fall in! Fall in! Fall in!
              Every man in his place.
       Fall in! Fall in! Fall in!
              Each with a cheerful face,
       Fall in! Fall in! Fall in!
                     --MICHAEL O'CONNOR.

Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary,
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary:
       Furl it, fold it, - it is best;
For there's not a man to wave it,
And there's not a sword to save it,
       Furl it, hide it, - let it rest!
                                   --A. J. RYAN.
                                   (The Confederate Poet.)

I hear the inarticulate murmurs flow
Of the faint wind-tides breathing like a sea;
When, in clear vision, softly dawns on me
(As if in contrast with you slow decay)
The lovelist land that smiles beneath the sky,
The coast-land of our Western Italy.
                     --PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

The tents that whitened Arlington have
       vanished from the fields,
And plenty, where the cannon stood,
        a golden harvest yields;
The campfires gleam no more at night,
        and pleasant mornings come
Without the blare of bugles
       or the beating of the drum.
                            ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
But though the camps have vanished
       and the tents are laid away,
An army waits upon the knolls
       in undisturbed array,-
A legion without banners,
       that knows no music save
The wailing of the dead-march
       and a volley o'er the grave.
                            --S. M. CARPENTER.

Historic mount! baptized in flame and blood,
Thy name is as immortal as the rocks
That crowned thy thunder-scarred but royal brow.
                                   I gaze
From this tall height on Chickamauga's field,
Where Death held erst high carnival.
The tramp! the shout! the fearful thunder-roar
Of red-breathed cannon, and the wailing cry
Of myriad victims, filled the air.
                                   The soil was wet
And miry with the life-blood of the brave,
As with a drenching rain; and you broad stream,-
The noble and majestic Tennessee,-
Ran reddened toward the deep.
                     --GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

Do you know of the dreary land,
       If land such regon may seem,
Where 'tis neither sea nor strand,
Ocean nor good dry land,
       But the nightmare marsh of a dream?
Where the Mighty River his death-road takes,
Mid pools and windings that coil like snakes,
A hundred leagues of bayous and lakes,
       To die in the great Gulf Stream?
                     --HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

I read last night of the Grand Review
In Washington's chiefest avenue, -
Two hundred thousand men in blue,
       I think they said was the number,-
Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet,
The bugle blast and the drums's quick beat,
And the thousand details that to repeat
       Would only my verse encumber, -
Till I fell in a revery, sad and sweet,
       And then to a fitful slumber.
                     ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
And I saw a phantom army come,
With never a sound of fife and drum,
But keeping time to a throbbing hum
       Of wailing and lumentation.
The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill,
Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville,
The men whose wasted figures fill
       The patriot graves of the nation.
                                   --BRET HARTE.

To the West! To the West!
       Where the rivers that flow
Run thousands of miles,
       spreading out as they go;
Where the green waving forests
       that echo our call
Are wide as old England,
       and free to us all:
Where the prairies, like seas
       where the billows have rolled,
Are broad as the kingdoms
       and empires of old.
                     --CHARLES MACKAY.

(Harper's Monthly), May, 1866.

Fair broke the day among the georgian mountains;
       The mists, not chill nor raw,
But soft and warm, like spray from summer fountains,
       Hung round old Kenesaw.

And vast and billowy as the face of ocean
       The white fog lay below,
From whose expanse, with every shifting motion,
       As from a sea of snow,

The lesser peaks arose like isles volcanic-
       Lost Mountain, Pine Hill; far
To south, Stone Mountain gleamed an alp Titanic,
       Whose glory noon should mar.

Nor did the fleecy legions show surrender
       Till up the sunlight rolled
And filled the floating isles with matchless spendor,
       The cloudy sea with gold.

When round our lotty height of observation
       We saw the prospect clear,
The frail battalions with precipitation
       Retreat and disappear,

Our station called the next, our view repeating
       The distant posts to tell;
From the Gate City came reply and greeting,
       Flag-spoken: "All is well"

It was the month when scarlet banners, flying
       From every summer tree,
Proclaim, as heroes oft in death, that dying
       sublimer life may be.

And where the bristling abatis defended
       The rifle-pits in line,
An oriflamme, with golden lustre splendid,
       Blazed the dead mountain-pine.

While far beneath, with homes and haunts civilian,
       Rose Marietta's walls;
Shone white against the autumn groves vermilion
       Her tented hospitals.

To north - is that dark mass the shadows creeping
       Along the valley bed?
Are those the grooves that hasten onward, sweeping
       With swift and swinging tread?

O Talking Flag, thy worth if ever proving,
       We hail the distant glass;
Atlanta heard:
       "The foe at Acworth, moving on Allatoona Pass."

The Pass! from distant Chattanooga winding
       Along the iron way,
The laden trains, to far Atlanta finding
       Through it their southward way,

Bore the Great General food and war's munitions,
       Until his great decree
That marched an army, spite of war's traditions,
       Through Georgia to the sea.

Quick came the answer -"Signal for assistance
       To General Corse at Rome;
Let the Pass garrison show firm resistance
       Till reinforcements come -"

No hope that fleetest courier madly riding
       Could cross the path they strode
The electric wires, as though our fate deciding,
       Trailed speechless in the road.

But on our viewless telegraph the saving
       And weighty order sped;
The baffled rebel helpless watched us waving
       The magic white-and-red.

The desperate charge, the stern repulse, the ending
       Of all his brilliant plan -
(For Corse's veterans stood the fort defending
       Before the fight began)-

We saw; our hearts' intenser beat compelling
       Our very breath to lag;
Enough when rose the signal, victory telling
       And Sherman thanked the Flag.

On that red field its swift dispatch had aided
       Where brave McPherson fell;
Where Smith's and Leggett's heroes enfiladed
       Defied the shot and shell,

And held - till night withdrew the foe - undaunted,
       The triangle of fire,
Our flag, above the shattered breast-works planted,
       Beheld his hosts retire.

Strange charm is thine, mysterious dweller
       In heaven's clear upper air!
The windy Zeus, the Cloud-and-Storm-Compeller
       Resigns his empire there.

The lines that march deploying through the valleys
       Advance and then retreat,
The impetuous mass that up the hill-side sallies
       Columns that part and meet -

Thine is their purpose and their destination;
       Thy stroke their guiding hand,
Whose gestures link in close communication
       Commander and command.

In kindred service shine thy torches flaming
       Above the midnight camps;
The dusky soldier wondering sees them, shaming
       The sky's remoter lamps.

Their fiery glow the distant darkness lighting
       His simple spirit awes,
And seems the stars within their courses fighting
       Against the slaver's cause.

Yet safe thy secrets; vain the foeman's presage?
       Of what thy words prtend;
While even the practised flagman waves the message
       He does not comprehend.

Thy work is done; along Virgina's river
       No more thy signal flies;
From Georgia's hills by night no more the quiver
       Of thy red torch shall rise.

There came a noon when from the bastions frowning
       Of every fort and bay,
Flung out a banner; hurrying on and crowning
       The mountains far away.

It left undecked no hamlet's little steeple
       That loud with joy-bells rung;
And from the breasts of a too-happy people
       Its passion-flowers were hung.

We knew its language; knew our work was over;
       And hailed, while ours we furled,
The only Flag whose sovereign folds shall cover
       Henceforth our Western world.

It said: "For no poor vaunt of wide dominions
       I threw the gage of war;
Through all the fearful fight may rosy pinions
       The hope of ages bore.

"Ye say Greece fought for liberty; her story
       Still lights the student's cheek;
And all her scenery seems a field of glory
       From which her heroes speak.

"But ask the Helot, when her banners floating
       Through most pellucid air,
Came home, o'er Persian downfall gloating,
       How much his race might share?

"Rome's boasted standard righted wrongs patrician
       Where'er its eagles flew;
What recked her haughty loards of their conditions
       Who no proud lineage knew?

"From nameless graves along the blue Egean,
       From Asian temples prone,
From Romans hearths in buried homes Pompeiian,
       From Eqypt's mystic stone,

"I heard the voice of Time, in solemn warning,
       Pronounce the words of ban;
'I build the sepulchres of nations scorning
       The rights of man as man.'

"I learned their lesson; not to strength or beauty
       I pledge a special grace;
No wider stretch of my protecting duty
       To birth or caste or race.

"As much oppressor as oppressed to better
       I bade war's thunders roll,
Since who has learned to view unmoved a fetter
       Has lost the freeman's soul.

"O lowly worker in the fields of cotton,
       Great king of sword or pen,
I yield you both, your lesser claims forgotten,
       The equal rights of men;

"The old republic, purified and guided
       As once its founders planned;
To hold forever one and undivided
       Our common Fatherland;

"For this I fought; the nations, silent, eying
       The dreadful struggle, stood;
The land of Milton coldly blamed, denying
       The need of war or blood.

"She stretched across the ocean intervening
       No cordial hand of friend,
But said, 'It is an awful strife, whose meaning
       I do not comprehend.'

"True, what significance to her, whose treasure
       Were claims of acient birth,
Had our great conflict, waged those claims to measure
       By man's intrinsic worth?

"The cause in which her Hampden died forgetting,
       To her the haughty pride
Of Southern cavalier, his slaves regretting,
       More nearly seemed allied.

"What better proof than this her barons offered,
       That through their present runs
The spirit that in Magna Charta proffered
       Small boon to peasants' sons.

"For well I hold my higher code forever
       From careless readers sealed;
The Signal Flag of Liberty has never
       Her symbols yet revealed,

"Unless to hearts of generous thoughts prolific,
       And they alone combine
The secret disk, the stroke hieroglyphic,
       The hidden countersign.

"And those in whom my trumpet's loud appealing
       No martial ardor woke,
Who listless saw my color-bearer reeling
       Amidst the battle smoke -

"Who heaped their sordid gains with tearless faces
       Through scenes that angels thrilled,
And shunned the broken ranks whose empty places
       A braver host had filled;

"To them my bugle notes to combat calling
       In foreign accents rung;
On their dull ears my million voices falling
       Rehearsed an unknown tongue;

"But nobler souls, the heights of thought commanding,
       In purer atmosphere,
Above the sulphurous mists of passion standing,
       Leaned down with words of cheer.

"O poet, sage, whose broader view extending
       Above the cloudy plain.
Descried each hostile infuence impending,
       With warning not in vain!

"O woman, loyal and clear-sighted, merging
       Your dearest hopes in mine,
From lonely mounts of self-forgetting urging
       Your sacrifice divine!

"Not less your work than theirs whose valor daunted
       The fiery front of War;
And yours the peerless laurels only granted
       To Freedom's Signal Corps.

And thou, O mother! for a soldier weeping
       By far Potomac laid,
Or distant Chattahoochee, swiftly leaping
       Athwart its chestnut shade,

"Lament him not; no love could make immortal
       The span that we call life;
And never hero entered heavenly portal
       Through fields of grander strife;

"And glories brighter than heraldic splendors
       His kindred's house may claim;
That when I call the roll of my defenders
       My lips shall speak his name."