"And lo! the universal air

Seem'd lit with ghastly flame;
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame:
I took the dead man by his hand,
And call'd upon his name!

"O God! it made me quake to see
Such sense within the slain;
But when I touch'd the lifeless clay,
The blood gush'd out amain!
For every clot, a burning spot
Was scorching in my brain!

"My head was like an ardent coal,
My heart as solid ice;

My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,
Was at the Devil's price:

A dozen times I groan'd; the dead
Had never groan'd but twice!

"And now, from forth the frowning sky, From the heavens' topmost height,

I heard a voice-the awful voice

Of the blood-avenging Sprite:— "Thou guilty man! take up thy dead And hide it from my sight!'

"I took the dreary body up,
And cast it in a stream,—
A sluggish water, black as ink,
The depth was so extreme:-
My gentle Boy, remember this
Is nothing but a dream!

"Down went the corpse with a hollow plunge, And vanish'd in the pool;

Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,

And wash'd my forehead cool, And sat among the urchins young,

That evening in the school.

"Oh, Heaven! to think of their white souls, And mine so black and grim!

I could not share in childish prayer,

Nor join in Evening Hymn: Like a Devil of the Pit I seem'd, 'Mid holy Cherubim!

"And peace went with them, one, and all,
And each calm pillow spread;

But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain
That lighted me to bed;

And drew my midnight curtains round,

With fingers bloody red!

"All night I lay in agony,

In anguish dark and deep;

My fever'd eyes I dared not close,
But stared aghast at Sleep:

For Sin had render'd unto her

The keys of Hell to keep!

"All night I lay in agony,
From weary chime to chime,
With one besetting, horrid hint,
That rack'd me all the time;
A mighty yearning, like the first
Fierce impulse unto crime!

VOL. V.-3

65

"One stern, tyrannic thought, that made
All other thoughts its slave;
Stronger and stronger every pulse
Did that temptation crave,—
Still urging me to go and see
The dead man in his grave!

Heavily I rose up, as soon
As light was in the sky,

And sought the black accursed pool
With a wild misgiving eye;

And I saw the Dead in the river bed,
For the faithless stream was dry.

"Merrily rose the lark, and shook
The dewdrops from its wing;
But I never mark'd its morning flight,
I never heard it sing:

For I was stooping once again

Under the horrid thing.

"With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran;—

There was no time to dig a grave

Before the day began:

In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,

I hid the murder'd man!

"And all that day I read in school,
But my thought was other where;
As soon as the midday task was done,
In secret I was there:

And a mighty wind had swept the leaves
And still the corpse was bare!

"Then down I cast me on my face,
And first began to weep,

For I knew my secret then was one
That earth refused to keep:

Or land or sea, though he should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep.

"So wills the fierce avenging Sprite,
Till blood for blood atones!
Ay, though he's buried in a cave,
And trodden down with stones,
And years have rotted off his flesh,-
The world shall see his bones!

"O God! that horrid, horrid dream
Besets me now awake!
Again-again, with dizzy brain,

The human life I take;

And my right red hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake.

"And still no peace for the restless clay, Will wave or mould allow;

The horrid thing pursues my soul,

It stands before me now!"

The fearful boy look'd up and saw
Huge drops upon his brow.

That very night, while gentle sleep
The urchin eyelids kiss'd,

Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;

And Eugene Aram walk'd between,
With gyves upon his wrist.

JULIA WARD HOWE

66

JULIA WARD HOWE, born in New York, 1819. In 1843 she became the wife of Dr. Howe. Her first published work was entitled 'Passion Flowers," a volume of poems. Later she wrote tragedies, "The World's Own," "Lenore," and "Hippolytus." Her "Battle-Hymn of the Republic," inspired by the Civil War, is a lyric of extraordinary power. Mrs. Howe is a popular speaker on Woman's Rights and kindred subjects.

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC

MINI

INE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:

His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred

circling camps;

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;

I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:

His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnish'd rows of

steel:

"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;