"Charge!" Trump and drum awoke ; Onward the bondmen broke; Bayonet and saber-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 't is 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, So they could once more see That burst to liberty! This was what "freedom" lent To the black regiment. Hundreds on hundreds fell; But they are resting well; Scourges and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong. O, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true! Hail them as comrades tried; Fight with them side by side; Never, in field or tent, Scorn the black regiment!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

OF THE WARRES IN IRELAND. FROM HARRINGTON'S EPIGRAMS, BOOK IV. 6.

I PRAISED the speech, but cannot now abide it,
That warre is sweet to those that have not try'd it;
For I have proved it now and plainly see 't,
It is so sweet, it maketh all things sweet.
At home Canaric wines and Greek grow lothsome;
Here milk is Nectar, water tasteth toothsome.

There without baked, rost, boyl'd, it is no cheere,
Bisket we like, and Bonny Clabo here.
There we complaine of one wan rosted chick;
Here meat worse cookt ne're makes us sick.

At home in silken sparrers, beds of Down,
We scant can rest, but still tosse up and down;
Here we can sleep, a saddle to our pillow,
A hedge the Curtaine, Canopy a Willow.
There if a child but cry, O what a spite!
Here we can brook three larums in one night.
There homely rooms must be perfumed with Roses;
Here match and powder ne're offend our noses.
There from a storm of rain we run like Pullets;
Here we stand fast against a showre of bullets.
Lo, then how greatly their opinions erre,
That think there is no great delight in warre;
But yet for this, sweet warre, Ile be thy debtor,
I shall forever love my home the better.

SIR JOHN HARRINGTON.

O, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING!

O, THE sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing
O'er files arrayed

With helm and blade,

And plumes in the gay wind dancing,
When hearts are all high beating,
And the trumpet's voice repeating
That song whose breath
May lead to death,

But never to retreating.
Then, if a cloud comes over
The brow of sire or lover,
Think 'tis the shade

By vict'ry made,

Whose wings right o'er us hover.
O, the sight entrancing,

When morning's beam is glancing
O'er files arrayed

With helm and blade,

And plumes in the gay wind dancing.

Yet 't is not helm or feather,
For ask yon despot whether
His plumed bands

Could bring such hands
And hearts as ours together.
Leave pomps to those who need 'em, -
Adorn but man with freedom,

And proud he braves

The gaudiest slaves

That crawl where monarchs lead 'em.
The sword may pierce the beaver,
Stone walls in time may sever,
"Tis mind alone,

Worth steel and stone,

WAR'S loud alarms

Call me to arms;

Honor bids me quit thy charms;
To battle I must go.

Entreat me then no more to stay,
No longer can I brook delay,
My soul is eager for the fray,

And burns to meet the foe.
Ne'er shall it be said

A Briton bold from danger fled,
Or sought to hide his craven head

Within a lady's bower!

The power of Cupid I defy,

When Cambria's banner waves on high, When hurtles through the darkened sky The arrow's deadly shower.

Far o'er the plain, Loudly again,

Sounds the trumpet's warlike strain,
A signal to depart.

Yet, dearest, when I'm far from thee,
In death, defeat, or victory,

Thy form alone shall ever be

Still nearest to my heart!
In the battle-field,

With spear to spear, and shield to shield,
When we have made the Saxon yield,

And bend his haughty knee, Then will my true and faithful heart At glory's call now doomed to part, Forsaking spear and shield and dart, Come fondly back to thee!

From the Welsh of TALHAIARN, by THOMAS OLIPHANT.

CAVALRY SONG.

OUR bugles sound gayly, To horse and away!
And over the mountains breaks the day:
Then ho! brothers, ho! for the ride or the fight,
There are deeds to be done ere we slumber to-
night!

And whether we fight or whether we fall

By saber-stroke or rifle-ball,

The hearts of the free will remember us yet,

And our country, our country will never

forget!

Then mount and away! let the coward delight To be lazy all day and safe all night;

Our joy is a charger, flecked with foam,

And the earth is our bed and the saddle our home:
And whether we fight, etc.

See yonder the ranks of the traitorous foe,
And bright in the sunshine bayonets glow!
Breathe a prayer, but no sigh; think for what

you would fight;

Then charge! with a will, boys, and God for the right!

And whether we fight, etc.

We have gathered again the red laurels of war;
We have followed the traitors fast and far;
But some who rose gayly this morn with the sun
Lie bleeding and pale on the field they have won!
But whether we fight, etc.

ROSSITER W. RAYMOND.

SONG OF THE CAVALRY.

FROM "ALICE OF MONMOUTH."

OUR good steeds snuff the evening air, Our pulses with their purpose tingle; The foeman's fires are twinkling there; He leaps to hear our sabers jingle!

HALT!

Each carbine send its whizzing ball:
Now, cling clang! forward all,
Into the fight!

Dash on beneath the smoking dome :

Through level lightnings gallop nearer ! One look to Heaven! No thoughts of home: The guidons that we bear are dearer. CHARGE!

Cling! clang! forward all!

Heaven help those whose horses fall:
Cut left and right!

They flee before our fierce attack!

They fall! they spread in broken surges. Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, And leave the foeman to his dirges.

WHEEL!

The bugles sound the swift recall :
Cling clang! backward all!

Home, and good night!

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK.

PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu,

Pibroch of Donuil,

Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan Conuil.

HAIL to the Chief who in triumph advances ! Honored and blessed be the evergreen Pine! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!

Heaven send it happy dew,

Earth lend it sap anew,

Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,
While every highland glen

Sends our shout back again,
"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;
When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on
the mountain,

The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.
Moored in the rifted rock,

Proof to the tempest's shock,

Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;
Menteith and Breadalbanc, then,

Echo his praise again,

'Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin, And Bannachar's groans to our slogan replied; Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin,

And the best of Loch-Lomond lie dead on her

side.

Widow and Saxon maid

Long shall lament our raid,

Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe; Lennox and Leven-glen

Shake when they hear again, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!
Stretch to your oars for the evergreen Pine!

O that the rosebud that graces yon islands
Were wreathed in a garland around him to

twine!

O that some seedling gem,
Worthy such noble stem,

Honored and blessed in their shadow might

grow!

Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from her deepmost glen, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE BATTLE-SONG OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS.

FEAR not, O little flock! the foe
Who madly seeks your overthrow,

Dread not his rage and power;

What though your courage sometimes faints? His seeming triumph o'er God's saints

Lasts but a little hour.

Be of good cheer; your cause belongs
To him who can avenge your wrongs,
Leave it to him, our Lord.
Though hidden now from all our eyes,
He sees the Gideon who shall rise
To save us, and his word.

As true as God's own word is true,
Not earth or hell with all their crew
Against us shall prevail.

A jest and by-word are they grown;
God is with us, we are his own,
Our victory cannot fail.

Amen, Lord Jesus; grant our prayer! Great Captain, now thine arm make bare ; Fight for us once again!

So shall the saints and martyrs raise

A mighty chorus to thy praise,

World without end! Amen.

From the German of MICHAEL ALTENBURG.

KÖRNER'S SWORD SONG.

[Charles Theodore Körner was a young German soldier, scholar, poet, and patriot. He was born at Dresden in the autumn of 1791, and fell in battle for his country at the early age of twenty-two. The "Sword Song," so called, was written in his pocket-book only two hours before he fell, during a halt in a wood previous to the engage ment, and was read by him to a comrade just as the signal was given for battle. This bold song represents the soldier chiding his sword, which, under the image of his iron bride, is impatient to come forth from her chamber, the scabbard, and be wedded to him on the field of battle, where each soldier shall press the blade to his lips.

Körner fell in an engagement with superior numbers near a thicket in the neighborhood of Rosenburg. He had advanced in pursuit of the flying foe too far beyond his comrades. They buried him under an old oak on the site of the battle, and carved his name on the trunk.]

SWORD, on my left side gleaming,

What means thy bright eye's beaming?

It makes my spirit dance To see thy friendly glance. Hurrah!

"A valiant rider bears me;
A free-born German wears me :
That makes my eye so bright;
That is the sword's delight."
Hurrah!

Yes, good sword, I am free,
And love thee heartily,
And clasp thee to my side,
E'en as a plighted bride.
Hurrah!

"And I to thee, by Heaven,
My light steel life have given ;
When shall the knot be tied ?
When wilt thou take thy bride ?"
Hurrah!

The trumpet's solemn warning Shall hail the bridal morning. When cannon-thunders wake Then my true-love I take. Hurrah!

"O blessed, blessed meeting! My heart is wildly beating: Come, bridegroom, come for me; My garland waiteth thee." Hurrah!

Why in the scabbard rattle,
So wild, so fierce for battle?
What means this restless glow?
My sword, why clatter so?
Hurrah!

"Well may thy prisoner rattle;
My spirit yearns for battle.
Rider, 't is war's wild glow
That makes me tremble so."
Hurrah!

Stay in thy chamber near,
My love; what wilt thou here?
Still in thy chamber bide:
Soon, soon I take my bride.
Hurrah!

"Let me not longer wait :
Love's garden blooms in state,
With roses bloody-red,
And many a bright death-bed."
Hurrah!

Now, then, come forth, my bride! Come forth, thou rider's pride!