With welcome to wounding and combat and scars And the glory of death-for the Stripes and the

Stars!

O God of our fathers! this banner must shine
Where battle is hottest, in warfare divine !
The cannon has thundered, the bugle has blown—
We fear not the summons—we fight not alone!
O lead us, till wide from the gulf to the sea
The land shall be sacred to freedom and Thee!
With love, for oppression; with blessing, for scars-
One country-one banner-the Stripes and the
Stars!

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG.

COME, brothers! rally for the right!
The bravest of the brave
Sends forth her ringing battle-cry

Beside the Atlantic wave!
She leads the way in honor's path;
Come, brothers, near and far,
Come rally 'round the Bonnie Blue Flag
That bears a single star!

We've borne the Yankee trickery,
The Yankee gibe and sneer,
Till Yankee insolence and pride
Know neither shame nor fear;

But ready now with shot and steel
Their brazen front to mar,
We hoist aloft the Bonnie Blue Flag
That bears a single star!

Now Georgia marches to the front,
And close beside her come

Her sisters by the Mexique Sea,
With pealing trump and drum;
Till, answering back from hill and glen
The rallying cry afar,

A Nation hoists the Bonnie Blue Flag
That bears a single star!

By every stone in Charleston Bay,
By each beleaguered town,

We swear to rest not, night nor day,

But hunt the tyrants down!

Till, bathed in valor's holy blood

The gazing world afar

Shall greet with shouts the Bonnie Blue Flag

That bears the cross and star!

ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM.

TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE.

THAT late, in half-despair, I said:

'The Nation's ancient life is dead;

Her arm is weak; her blood is cold;
She hugs the peace that gives her gold—
The shameful peace, that sees expire
Each beacon-light of patriot fire,
And makes her court a traitor's den,"-
Forgive me this, my Countrymen !

Oh, in your long forbearance grand,
Slow to suspect the treason planned,
Enduring wrong, yet hoping good
For sake of olden brotherhood,
How grander, how sublimer far,
At the roused Eagle's call ye are,
Leaping from slumber to the fight
For Freedom and for Chartered Right!

Throughout the land there goes a cry:
A sudden splendor fills the sky;
From every hill the banners burst,
Like buds by April breezes nurst;
In every hamlet, home, and mart,
The fire-beat of a single heart
Keeps time to strains whose pulses mix
Our blood with that of Seventy-Six!

Draw forth your million blades as one!
Complete the battle then begun!
God fights with ye, and overhead
Floats the dear banner of your dead.
They, and the glories of the Past,
The Future, dawning dim and vast,
And all the holiest hopes of man,
Are beaming triumph in your van!
Slow to resolve, be swift to do!
Teach ye the False how fight the True!
How bucklered Perfidy shall feel
In her black heart the Patriot's steel;
How sure the bolt that Justice wings;
How weak the arm a traitor brings;
How mighty they, who steadfast stand
For Freedom's Flag and Freedom's Land!

BAYARD TAYLOR.

THE TWO FURROWS.

THE spring-time came, but not with mirth;

The banner of our trust,

And with it the best hopes of earth

Were trailing in the dust.

The farmer saw the shame from far,

And stopped his plough afield;

"Not the blade of peace, but the brand of war, This arm of mine must wield.

"When traitor hands that flag would stain,
Their homes let women keep;
Until its stars burn bright again,
Let others sow and reap."

The farmer sighed. "A life-time long
The plough has been my trust;
In truth, it were an arrant wrong
To leave it now to rust."

With ready strength the farmer tore
The iron from the wood;

And to the village smith he bore

That ploughshare, stout and good.

The blacksmith's arms were bare and brown, And loud the bellows roared;

The farmer flung his ploughshare down:
"Now forge me out a sword!”

And then a merry, merry chime
The sounding anvil rung;

Good sooth, it was a nobler rhyme

Than ever poet sung.

The blacksmith wrought with skill that day; The blade was keen and bright;

And now where thickest is the fray

The farmer leads the fight.

Not as of old that blade he sways
To break the meadow's sleep;

But through the rebel ranks he lays
A furrow broad and deep.

The farmer's face is burned and brown,

But light is on his brow;

Right well he wots what blessings crown
The furrow of the Plough.

"But better is to-day's success
Thus ran the farmer's word—
"For nations yet unborn shall bless
This furrow of the Sword."

C. H. WEBB.

SCOTT AND THE VETERAN.

[May, 1861.]

AN old and crippled veteran to the War Department came;

He sought the Chief who led him on many a field of fame

The Chief who shouted "Forward!" where'er his banner rose,

And bore its stars in triumph behind the flying foes.

"Have you forgotten, General," the battered soldier cried,

"The days of Eighteen Hundred Twelve, when I was at your side?

Have you forgotten Johnson, that fought at Lundy's Lane?

'Tis true I'm old and pensioned, but I want to fight again."

"Have I forgotten?" said the Chief; "my brave old soldier, no!

And here's the hand I gave you then, and let it tell you so:

But you have done your share, my friend; you're crippled, old, and gray,

And we have need of younger arms and fresher blood to-day."