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Thither, right joyful to accept release,

The General has gone forward !

MARGARET J. PRESTON.

VANQUISHED.

[General U. S. Grant, died July 23, 1885.]

I.

NOT by the ball or brand
Sped by a mortal hand,

Not by the lightning-stroke
When fiery tempests broke,-
Not mid the ranks of war
Fell the great Conqueror.

II.

Unmoved, undismayed,

In the crash and carnage of the cannonade,Eye that dimmed not, hand that failed not, Brain that swerved not, heart that quailed not, Steel nerve, iron form,

The dauntless spirit that o'erruled the storm.

III.

While the Hero peaceful slept

A foeman to his chamber crept,

Lightly to the slumberer came,

Touched his brow and breathed his name:

O'er the stricken form there passed
Suddenly an icy blast.

IV.

The Hero woke: rose undismayed:
Saluted Death-and sheathed his blade.

V.

The Conqueror of a hundred fields
To a mightier Conqueror yields;
No mortal foeman's blow
Laid the great Soldier low;
Victor in his latest breath-
Vanquished but by Death.

FRANCIS F. BROWNE.

SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY.

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 drum's quick beat,
The clatter of hoofs in the stony street,
The cheers of people who came to greet,
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.

When, lo! in a vision I seemed to stand
In the lonely Capitol. On each hand
Far stretched the portico; dim and grand
Its columns ranged, like a martial band
Of sheeted spectres whom some command
Had called to a last reviewing.

And the streets of the city were white and bare, No footfall echoed across the square;

But out of the misty midnight air

I heard in the distance a trumpet blare,
And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear
The sound of a far tattooing.

Then I held my breath with fear and dread;
For into the square, with a brazen tread,
There rode a figure whose stately head

O'erlooked the review that morning,
That never bowed from its firm-set seat
When the living column passed its feet,
Yet now rode steadily up the street

To the phantom bugle's warning:

Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled,
And there in the moonlight stood revealed
A well-known form that in state and field
Had led our patriot sires;

Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp,
Afar through the river's fog and damp,
That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp,
Nor wasted bivouac fires.

And I saw a phantom army come,
With never a sound of fife or drum,
But keeping time to a throbbing hum
Of wailing and lamentation:
The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill,
Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville,
The men whose wasted figures fill

The patriot graves of the nation.

And there came the nameless dead, the men
Who perished in fever-swamp and fen,
The slowly-starved of the prison-pen;

And, marching beside the others,

Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight,
With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright:

I thought perhaps 'twas the pale moonlight-
They looked as white as their brothers!

And so all night marched the Nation's dead,
With never a banner above them spread,
Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished;
No mark-save the bare uncovered head
Of the silent bronze Reviewer;
With never an arch save the vaulted sky;
With never a flower save those that lie
On the distant graves-for love could buy
No gift that was purer or truer.

So all night long swept the strange array;
So all night long, till the morning gray,
I watch'd for one who had passed away,
With a reverent awe and wonder,—
Till a blue cap waved in the lengthening line,
And I knew that one who was kin of mine
Had come; and I spake-and lo! that sign
Awakened me from my slumber.

BRET HARTE.

COMRADES KNOWN IN MARCHES MANY.

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.

Comrades known by faith the clearest,
Tried when death was near and nearest,
Bound we are by ties the dearest,
Brothers evermore to be.

And, if spared, and growing older,
Shoulder still in line with shoulder,
And with hearts no thrill the colder,
Brothers ever we shall be.

By communion of the banner,-
Crimson, white, and starry banner,—
By the baptism of the banner,

Children of one Church are we.
Creed nor faction can divide us,
Race nor language can divide us;
Still, whatever fate betide us,
Children of the Flag are we.

CHARLES G. HALPINE.

IN MEMORY.

OLD Greece hath her Thermopyla,
Brave Switzerland her Tell,

The Scot his Wallace heart, and we
Heroic souls as well.

The graves of glorious Marathon
Are green above the dead;
And we have royal fields whereon
The trampled grass is red.

Oh, not alone the hoary Past
Spilled precious princely blood;
Oh, not alone its sons were cast
In knightly form and mood;
Perennial smells of sacrifice

Make sweet our sickened air;
And troth, as leal as Sidney's, lies
Around us everywhere.

Swords tried as that Excalibur

Which graced King Arthur's thigh,

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