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FIFTY YEARS.

AT THE GREAT UNION LEAGUE MEETING, N. Y.
MARCH 14TH, '61.

IN fifty years, the little commonwealth
Our little league of states, that, in its early day,
Skirted the long Atlantic coast, has grown
To a vast empire, filled with populous towns
Beside its midland rivers, and beyond

The snowy peaks that bound its midland plains
To where its rivulets, over sands of gold
Seek the Pacific-till at length it stood
Great 'mid the greatest of the Powers of Earth,
And they who sat upon Earth's ancient thrones
Beheld its growth in wonder and in awe.

* * *

* * Fierce is the strife,

As when of old the sinning angels strove

To whelm, beneath the uprooted hills of heaven,
The warriors of the Lord. Yet now, as then,

God and the Right shall give the victory.
For us, who fifty years ago went forth
Upon the world's great theatre, may we
Yet see the day of triumph, which the hours
On steady wing waft hither from the depths
Of a serener future; may we yet,
Beneath the reign of a new peace, behold
The shaken pillars of our commonwealth
Stand readjusted in their ancient poise.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE BLACK REGIMENT.

EXPLOITS OF THE COLORED TROOPS IN FLORIDA,
MARCH 16TH, '63.

DARK as the clouds of even,
Ranked in the western heaven,
Waiting the breath that lifts
All the dread mass, and drifts
Tempest and falling brand
Over a ruined land!—
So still and orderly,

Arm to arm, knee to knee,
Waiting the great event,
Stands the black regiment.
Down the long dusky line
Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine;
And the bright bayonet,
Bristling and firmly set,
Flashed with a purpose grand,
Long ere the sharp command
Of the fierce rolling drum
Told them their time had come,
Told them what work was sent
For the black regiment.
"Now," the flag-sergeant cried,
"Though death and hell betide,
Let the whole nation see
What! we are fit to be."
Oh! what a shout there went
From the black regiment!

Charge!" Trump and drum awoke;

Onward the bondmen broke;

Bayonet and sabre-stroke

Vainly opposed their rush.

Through the wild battle's crush,
With but one thought aflush,
Driving their lords like chaff,
In the guns' mouths they laugh;
Or at the slippery brands
Leaping with open hands,
Down they tear man and horse,
Down in their awful course;
Trampling with bloody heel
Over the crashing steel,
All their eyes forward bent,'
Rushed the black regiment.
"Freedom" their battle-cry-
"Freedom! or leave to die!"
Ah! and they meant the word,
Not as with us 'tis heard,
Not a mere party-shout:

They gave their spirits out;
Trusted the end to God,
And on the gory sod

Rolled in triumphant blood.
Glad to strike one free blow,
Whether for weal or woe;

Glad to breathe one free breath,
Though on the lips of death.
Praying-alas! in vain!

That they might fall again.

This was what "freedom" lent
To the black regiment.

GEORGE H. BOKER.

LAY OF AN IMPRISONED UNION OFFICER.

ARRIVAL OF THE RELEASED PRISONERS

AT FORTRESS MONROE,

MARCH 19TH, '63.

YE may mock, ye may torture
With bar and with chain,
But the soldier of Right
Laughs at jeering and pain!
Boast on as ye please,

Of your tyrannous flag,
I will shout for the Banner
On Liberty's crag—

For the beautiful Banner,

The sacred bright Banner,
The UNION'S old Banner of Stars!

I have hope in the day,

I have hope in the night:
Honor's Angel flings o'er me
Broad visions of light!

Your tyranny sinks,

But my Government shines

With a grand glory gleamed

From Eternity's shrines

While I shout for the Banner,

The sacred bright banner,

The UNION's old Banner of Stars!

WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE.

LAND OF THE FOREST AND THE ROCK.

BATTLE AT MILTON, TENN.,

MARCH 20TH, '63.

LAND of the forest and the rock

Of dark-blue lake and mighty river-
Of mountains rear'd aloft to mock
The storm's career, the lightning's shock-
My own green land forever!

Land of the beautiful and brave

The Freeman's home-the martyr's grave-
The nursery of giant men,

Whose deeds have link'd with every glen,
And every hill and every stream,

The romance of some warrior-dream!
O! never may a son of thine,
Where'er his wandering steps incline,
Forget the sky which bent above

His childhood like a dream of love,
The stream beneath the green hills flowing,
The broad armed trees above it growing,
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing
Or hear, unmoved, the taunt of scorn
Breathed o'er the brave New England born;
Or mark the stranger's jaguar-hand

Disturbed the ashes of the dead,
The buried glory of a land

Whose soil with noble blood is red,
And sanctified in every part,—
Nor feel resentment, like a brand,
Unsheathing from its fiery heart!

JOHN G WHITTIER.

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