There is terror wherever we come,

There is terror and wild dismay

When they see the Old Flag and hear the drum
Announce us on the way;

When they see the Old Flag and hear the drum
Beating time to our onward way.

Never unlimber a gun

For those villainous lines in gray;

Draw sabres, and at 'em upon the run!

"Tis thus we clear our way;

Draw sabres, and soon you will see them run,
As we hold our conquering way.

The loyal, who long have been dumb,
Are loud in their cheers to-day;

And the old men out on their crutches come,
To see us hold our way;

And the old men out on their crutches come,
To bless us on our way.

Around us in rear and flanks

Their futile squadrons play;

With a sixty-mile front of steady ranks,
We hold our checkless way;

With a sixty-mile front of serried ranks,
Our banner clears the way.

Hear the spattering fire that starts
From the woods and copses gray!

There is just enough fighting to quicken our hearts,
As we frolic along the way;

There is just enough fighting to warm our hearts, As we rattle along the way.

Upon different roads abreast

The heads of our columns gay,

With fluttering flags all forward prest,

Hold on their conquering way;

With fluttering flags to victory prest,

We hold our glorious way!

Ah, traitors who bragged so bold
In the sad war's early day!

Did nothing predict you should ever behold
The Old Flag come this way?

Did nothing predict you should yet behold
Our banner come back this way?

By Heaven! 'tis a gala march,
'Tis a picnic or a play;

Of all our long war, 'tis the crowning arch,-
Hip, hip! for Sherman's way !

Of all our long war, this crowns the arch,—
For Sherman and Grant, hurra!

CHARLES G. HALPINE.

ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLORS.

WHO are you, dusky woman, so ancient, hardly human,

With your woolly-white and turban'd head, and bare bony feet?

Why, rising by the roadside here, do you the colors greet?

('Tis while our army lines Carolina's sands and pines, Forth from thy hovel door, thou, Ethiopia, com'st to

me,

As under doughty Sherman I march toward the sea.) Me, master, years a hundred, since, from my parents sundered,

A little child, they caught me as the savage beast is caught,

Then hither me across the sea the cruel slaver brought.

No further does she say, but lingering all the day, Her high-borne turban'd head she wags, and rolls her darkling eye,

And courtesies to the regiments, the guidons mov

ing by.

What is it, fateful woman, so blear, hardly human? Why wag your head with turban bound, yellow, red

and green?

Are the things so strange and marvellous you see or have seen?

WALT WHITMAN.

SAVANNAH.

THOU hast not drooped thy stately head,
Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed!
Not like a lamb to slaughter led,
But with the lion's monarch tread,
Thou comest to thy battle bed,
Savannah! O Savannah!

Thine arm of flesh is girded strong;
The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong;
To thee the triple cords belong

Of woe and death and shameless wrong,
And spirit vaunted long, too long!
Savannah! O Savannah!

No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair ;
Only the martyrs' blood is there;
It gleams upon thy bosom bier,
It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer,
And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear,
Savannah! O Savannah!

Thy clean white hand is opened wide
For weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride;
The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side,
Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide,
Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide,
Savannah! O Savannah!

What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers,
Still at thy feet the old oak towers;

Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers,
And things of beauty, love, and flowers
Are smiling o'er this land of ours,

My sunny home, Savannah!

There is no film before thy sight,—
Thou seest woe and death and night,
And blood upon thy banner bright;
But in thy full wrath's kindled might
What carest thou for woe or night?

My rebel home, Savannah!

Come for the crown is on thy head!
Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed;
Not like a lamb to slaughter led,
But with the lion's monarch tread,
Oh! come unto thy battle bed,

Savannah! O Savannah !

ALETHEA S. BURROUGHS.

THE FOE AT THE GATES.

[Charleston, 1865.]

RING round her! children of her glorious skies,
Whom she hath nursed to stature proud and great;
Catch one last glance from her imploring eyes,
Then close your ranks and face the threatening
fate.

Ring round her! with a wall of horrent steel
Confront the foe, nor mercy ask nor give;
And in her hour of anguish let her feel

That ye can die whom she has taught to live.

Ring round her! swear, by every lifted blade, To shield from wrong the mother who gave you birth;

That never violent hand on her be laid,

Nor base foot desecrate her hallowed hearth.

Curst be the dastard who shall halt or doubt!

And doubly damned who casts one look behind! Ye who are men! with unsheathed sword, and shout, Up with her banner ! give it to the wind!

Peal your wild slogan, echoing far and wide,
Till every ringing avenue repeat

The gathering cry, and Ashley's angry tide

Calls to the sea-waves beating round her feet.

Sons, to the rescue! spurred and belted, come!
Kneeling, with clasp'd hands, she invokes you now
By the sweet memories of your childhood's home,
By every manly hope and filial vow,

To save her proud soul from that loathed thrall
Which yet her spirit cannot brook to name ;
Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall,

Spare her she sues-the agony and shame.
From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled;
Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre,
And thus, with pæan sung and anthem rolled,
Give her unspotted to the God of Fire.

Gather around her sacred ashes then,

Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rain,

Die! as becomes a race of free-born men,

Who will not crouch to wear the bondman's chain.

So, dying, ye shall win a high renown,

If not in life, at least by death, set free;

And send her fame through endless ages down-The last grand holocaust of Liberty.

JOHN DICKSON BRUNS.