Beat ! beat ! drums !-blow! bugles ! blow!
Make no parley-stop for no expostulation,
Mind not the timid-mind not the weeper or

prayer, Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's

entreaties, Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they

lie awaiting the hearses, So strong you thump, o terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.

WALT WHITMAN.

OUR COUNTRY'S CALL. 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 hands 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. Our country calls ; away! away!

To where the blood-stream blots the green; Strike to defend the gentlest sway

That Time in all his course has seen. See, from a thousand coverts—see

Spring the armed foes that haunt her track; They rush to smite her down, and we

Must beat the banded traitors back. Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave,

And moved as soon to fear and flight, Men of the glade and forest ! leave

Your woodcraft for the field of fight.

The arms that wield the axe must pour

An iron tempest on the foe ; His serried ranks shall reel before

The arm that lays the panther low. And ye who breast the mountain storm

By grassy steep or highland lake,
Come, for the land ye love, to form

A bulwark that no foe can break.
Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock

The whirlwind; stand in her defence :
The blast as soon shall move the rock,

As rushing squadrons bear ye thence.
And ye whose homes are by her grand

Swift rivers, rising far away,
Come from the depth of her green land

As mighty in your march as they ;
As terrible as when the rains

Have swelled them over bank and bourne, With sudden floods to drown the plains

And sweep along the woods uptorn, And ye who throng beside the deep,

Her ports and hamlets of the strand, In number like the waves that leap

On his long-murmuring marge of sand,
Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim,

He rises, all his floods to pour,
And flings the proudest barks that swim,

A helpless wreck against his shore.
Few, few were they whose swords of old

Won the fair land in which we dwell ; But we are many, we who hold

The grim resolve to guard it well. Strike for that broad and goodly land,

Blow after blow, till men shall see That Might and Right move hand in hand, And glorious must their triumph be.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

A CRY TO ARMS.

HO, woodsmen of the mountain-side!

Ho, dwellers in the vales !
Ho, ye who by the chafing tide

Have roughened in the gales!
Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot,

Lay by the bloodless spade ;
Let desk and case and counter rot,

And burn your books of trade!
The despot roves your fairest lands;

And till he flies or fears, Your fields must grow but armèd bands,

Your sheaves be sheaves of spears !
Give up to mildew and to rust

The useless tools of gain,
And feed your country's sacred dust

With floods of crimson rain !
Come with the weapons at your call-

With musket, pike, or knife;
He wields the deadliest blade of all

Who lightest holds his life.
ΤΙ arm that drives its unbought blows

With all a patriot's scorn,
Might brain a tyrant with a rose

Or stab him with a thorn. Does any falter ? let him turn

To some brave maiden's eyes,
And catch the holy fires that burn

In those sublunar skies.
Oh, could you like your women feel,

And in their spirit march,
A day might see your lines of steel

Beneath the victor's arch!
What hope, O God! would not grow warm

When thoughts like these give cheer?

The lily calmly braves the storm,

And shall the palm-tree fear?
No! rather let its branches court

The rack that sweeps the plain;
And from the lily's regal port

Learn how to breast the strain.

Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side!

Ho, dwellers in the vales !
Ho, ye who by the roaring tide

Have roughened in the gales !
Come, flocking gayly to the fight,

From forest, hill, and lake;
We battle for our country's right
And for the lily's sake!

HENRY TIMROD,

NO MORE WORDS !

(Boston, April, 1861.) No more words;

Try it with your swords !
Try it with the arms of your bravest and your best !
You are proud of your manhood, now put it to the
test;

Not another word;
Try it by the sword !
No more notes ;

Try it by the throats
Of the cannon that will roar till the earth and air be

shaken; For they speak what they mean, and they cannot be mistaken ;

No more doubt;
Come-fight it out!

No child's play!

Waste not a day; Serve out the deadliest weapons

that
Let them pitilessly hail on the faces of the foe;

No blind strife;
Waste not one life.

you know;

You that in the front

Bear the battle's bruntWhen the sun gleams at dawn on the bayonets

abreast, Remember 'tis for government and country you contest;

For love of all you guard,
Stand, and strike hard !

You at home that stay

From danger far away, Leave not a jot to chance, while you rest in quiet

ease ; Quick! forge the bolts of death ; quick! ship them o'er the seas;

If War's feet are lame,
Yours will be the blame.

You, my lads, abroad,

"Steady!” be your word ; You, at home, be the anchor of your soldiers young

and brave; Spare no cost, none is lost, that may strengthen or may save;

Sloth were sin and shame;
Now play out the game!

FRANKLIN LUSHINGTON,