CHAPTER XXX.→→

Women •as* Roets.

BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.

BY MRS. JULIA WARD HOWE

Mrs. Howe was born in New York in 1819. She was the daughter of Samuel Ward, a banker of that city, and in 1843 was married to Samuel G. Howe, of Boston. Her first volume was a book of poems called Passion Flowers, published in 1854. It was in 1866, after the close of the war, that she published the Battle Hymn in her volume Later Lyrics. Mrs. Howe is a grand woman, a poet and philanthropist, and a worker in every good cause that furthers the advancement of women. She is also the author of several prose works commemorative of her travels abroad.

M

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 burnished rows of steel:
As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall

deal.

Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel— Since God is marching on.

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat.
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me.
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free-.
While God is marching on.

ROCK ME TO SLEEP.

BY MRS. ELIZABETH ÅKERS ALLEN.

The author of this beautiful and favorite poem, Mrs. Allen, was born October 9th, 1832, in Strong, Franklin Co., Maine, and at an early period was married to Paul Akers, the sculptor, who died in the following year. She afterwards married Mr. E. M. Allen, a resident of New York City, and under the nom-de-guerre of Florence Percy, wrote many beautiful and touching poems, none of which have attained to such popular fame as Rock Me to Sleep, which is claimed by as many authors as Beautiful Snow. Mrs. Allen is at present living in Greenville, N. J.

B

ACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your flight—
Make me a child again just for to-night.
Mother, come back from the echoless shore;
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep-
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years,
I am so weary of toil and of tears—
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain-
Take them and give me my childhood again.

I have grown weary of dust and decay--
Weary of flinging my soul wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap-
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you.
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between;
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep-
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Over my heart in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures-
Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours;
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep—
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For, with its sunny-edged shadows once more,
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore.
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep-
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song:

Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep-
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep.

M

ANSWER TO ROCK ME TO SLEEP.

Y child, ah my child! thou art weary to-night, Thy spirit is sad and dim is the light; Thou wouldst call me back from the echoless shore, To the trials of life, to thy heart as of yore;

Thou longest again for my fond loving care,

For my kiss on thy cheek, for my hand on thy hair; But angels around thee their loving watch keep, And angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep.

"Backward ?" Nay, onward, ye swift rolling years! Gird on thy armor, keep back thy tears;

Count not thy trials nor efforts in vain—

They'll bring thee the light of thy childhood again.
Thou shouldst not weary, my child, by the way,
But watch for the light of that brighter day;
Not tired of "sowing for others to reap,"
For angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep.

Tired, my child, of the "base, the untrue!"
I have tasted the cup they have given to you—
I've felt the deep sorrow in the living green
Of a low mossy grave by a silvery stream.
But the dear mother I then sought for in vain
Is an angel presence and with me again,

And in the still night, from the silence so deep,
Come the bright angels to rock me to sleep.

Nearer thee now than in days that are flown,
Purer the love light encircling thy home;
Far more enduring the watch for to-night,
Than ever earth worship away from the light.
Soon the dark shadows will linger no more,
Nor come to thy call from the opening door;
But know thou, my child, that the angels watch keep,
And soon, very soon, they'll rock thee to sleep.

They'll sing thee to sleep with a soothing song,
And waking, thou'lt be with a heavenly throng;
And thy life, with its toil and its tears and pain,
Thou wilt then see has not been in vain.

Thou wilt meet those in bliss whom on earth thou didst love, And whom thou hast taught of the "mansions above." "Never hereafter to suffer or weep,"

The angels, my darling, will rock thee to sleep.

KENTUCKY BELLE.

BY CONSTANCE F. WOOLSON.

This lady is a magazine writer of great power and originality. Her most popular novel is Anne, a tale of Mackinac, which was published in Harper's Magazine in 1881. She is unmarried, and an artist as well as an author and poet. The poem we append is an especial favorite in public readings.

UMMER of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away

ST

Gone to the country-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay— We lived in the log house yonder, poor as ever you've seen; Röschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen.