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Cambridge History of American Literature: volume 1, Colonial and Revolutionary Literature: Early National Literature: Part I (ed. Trent, William Peterfield, 1862-1939., Erskine, John, 1879-1951., Sherman, Stuart Pratt, 1881-1926., Van Doren, Carl, 1885-1950.) 21 1 Browse Search
William Alexander Linn, Horace Greeley Founder and Editor of The New York Tribune 13 1 Browse Search
James Parton, The life of Horace Greeley 11 1 Browse Search
Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 1 6 0 Browse Search
Cambridge History of American Literature: volume 2 (ed. Trent, William Peterfield, 1862-1939., Erskine, John, 1879-1951., Sherman, Stuart Pratt, 1881-1926., Van Doren, Carl, 1885-1950.) 6 0 Browse Search
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 6. (ed. Frank Moore) 6 0 Browse Search
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 3. (ed. Frank Moore) 4 0 Browse Search
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Henry Walcott Boynton, Reader's History of American Literature 4 0 Browse Search
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 2. (ed. Frank Moore) 4 0 Browse Search
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 8. (ed. Frank Moore) 2 0 Browse Search
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Arm and out. by Park Benjamin. Arm and out, ye Pennsylvanians; Leave your homesteads, arm and out t Hear ye not the rebel foemen Coming with a mighty shout? In delay lose not a minute; This is not the time for doubt-- Beat your drums and load your muskets; Pennsylvanians, arm and out! Lee is bringing on his cohorts, Ninety thousand strong, about; Meet them, kill them, drive them backward Pennsylvanians, arm and out! Young men, bid adieu to sweethearts, Though they whimper, scold, and pout; Duty calls you now, not dalliance; Pennsylvanians, arm and out! Husbands, quit your wives and children, Social cares and thoughts devout, Pleasure, work, trade, occupation; Pennsylvanians, arm and out! Take your hands from mines and forges, Where free labor made them stout; March, resistless, to the battle; Pennsylvanians, arm and out! Arm and out! your country orders-- Put the rebel ranks to rout; Fight for love, and home, and Union-- Pennsylvanians, arm and out! New-York, June 16, 1868.
5. the regiment returned. by Park Benjamin. The fife blows shrill, the drum beats loud; I hear the tramp of many feet Come echoing up the city street, With cheers and welcomes from the crowd. It is the regiment returned, That went away three months ago; Fearless they met the Southern foe, And with true patriot ardor burned. Their looks and dress are somewhat worn, But every gun is free from rust, And that is honorable dust Upon their caps and knapsacks borne. Their banner still is held on high, Though soiled with wind, and rain, and smoke, As bravely as when first it broke In light like sunrise on the sky. In the full front of battle shown, It onward led the serried files O'er many rough and weary miles, Through wild, beleaguered paths unknown. Against its folds the shot were cast, From hidden batteries, charged with death; And though its bearer held his breath, 'Twas carried upward to the last. And now, still marching where it waves, The bold survivors of the band, Return
44. the soldier's last word. by Park Benjamin. He lay upon the battle-field, Where late the clash of arms was heard, And from his pallid lips there came, In broken accents, one fond word. “Mother!” was all the soldier said, As, freshly from his wounded side, The hot blood flowed and bore away His life upon its crimson tide. Bravest among the brave he rushed, Without a throb or thought of fear, And loudest 'mid the tumult pealed, In clarion tones, his charging cheer: On to the battle! comrades, on! Strike for the Union! strike for fame! Who lives will win his country's praise, Who dies will leave a glorious name. Alas! what courage can advance Against a storm of iron hail? What hearts repel a fiery sleet, Though clad, like ancient knights, in mail? He sunk beneath the waves of strife, Among an undistinguished train, Foremost upon the battle-field, And first among the early slain. Dying, he turned him from the flag, Whose Stars and Stripes still onward waved; Dying, he thought no
33. the dead warrior. by Park Benjamin. Bind the oak leaves round his head; He has shown himself a man; Bravely charging, he fell dead, Fighting foremost in the van. Cheering with a mighty cheer, On he led the serried band; Now he lies upon his bier, Cold and stately, still and grand. Calmly gather round him now, All ye soldiers, and be dumb; Cast one look upon his brow As you hear the muffled drum. Then, with solemn feet, and slow, Mourning for his early doom, With your folded banners go, Lay the hero in his tomb.
Blasted B'S.--The B's have swarmed upon us for some time, and are more provocative of nightmare than mince pie at ten o'clock. We had Buchanan, Breckinridge, Black, Bright, Bigler, Bayard, Benjamin, and Brown to curse the nation in the civil ranks, and now we are haunted by Bull Run, Ball's Bluff, Big Bethel, and Bull's Bay, boldly entered by our fleet, notwithstanding the ominous prestige against B's. Blast the B's. We hope they will cease to swarm on the boughs of the Tree of Liberty. We hope our fleet will make no Bull in Bull's Bay, and regret that Beaufort begins with B.--Cleveland Plain Dealer. There seems to be another blasted B down at Belmont, Mo.
2. a Thanksgiving Hymn. by Park Benjamin. O God of Battles! by whose hand, Uplifted to protect the right, Are led the armies of our land, To be triumphant in the fight; Without whose smile, the solemn Night, Which now in shadow vails the sky, Would never yield to Morning light, Bend down and hear thy people's cry. Bend from thy heaven of heavens, and see A nation, which had grown so great That, drawing off their hearts from thee, They worshipped fortune, fame, and fate, And called upon thy name too late. Thy righteous anger we deplore; Oh, look upon their hapless state, And be our sure defence, once more. Be thou, who wast our fathers' God, Our own reliance, strength, and stay; And let the sacred path they trod Still be their children's chosen way, Illumined by that glorious ray Which guided through the desert drear, A fire at night, a cloud by day, For many a sad, despairing year. O thou, whose smiling face appears At last behind war's awful frown, The tribute of our gratefu
84. battle-worn banners. (January 26, 1864.) by Park Benjamin. I saw the soldiers come to-day From battle fields afar; No conqueror rode before their way On his triumphal car; But captains, like themselves, on foot, And banners sadly torn, All grandly eloquent though mute, In pride and glory borne. Those banners soiled with dust and smoke, And rent by shot and shell, That through the serried phalanx broke, What terrors could they tell! What tales of sudden pain and death In every cannon's boom, When even the bravest held his breath And waited for his doom. By hands of steel those flags were waved Above the carnage dire, Almost destroyed yet always saved, 'Mid battle-clouds and fire. Though down at times, still up they rose And kissed the breeze again, Dread tokens to the rebel foes Of true and loyal men. And here the true and loyal still Those famous banners bear; The bugles wind, the fifes blow shrill, And clash the cymbals where, With decimated ranks, they come, And through the
15. the Volunteer's burial. by Park Benjamin. 'Tis eve; one brightly beaming star Shines from the eastern heaven afar, To light the footsteps of the brave, Slow marching to a comrade's grave. The northern wind has sunk to sleep; The sweet South breathes, as, low and deep, The martial clang is heard, the tread Of those who bear the silent dead. And whose the form, all stark and cold, Thus ready for the loosened mould, And stretched upon so rude a bier? Thine, soldier, thine! the Volunteer. Poor Volunteer! the shot, the blow, Or swift disease hath laid him low; And few his early loss deplore-- His battle fought, his journey o'er. Alas! no wife's fond arms caressed. His cheek no tender mother pressed, No pitying soul was by his side, As lonely in his tent he died. He died — the Volunteer — at noon; At evening came the small platoon That soon will leave him to his rest, With sods upon his manly breast. Hark to their fire! his only knell-- More solemn than the passing bell;
32. a National hymn. by Park Benjamin. Great God! to whom our nation's woes, Our dire distress, our angry foes, In all their awful gloom are known, We bow to thee and thee alone. We pray thee mitigate this strife, Attended by such waste of life, Such wounds and anguish, groans and tears, That fill our inmost hearts with fears. Oh! darkly now the tempest rolls, Wide o'er our desolated souls; Yet, beaten downward to the dust, In thy forgiveness still we trust. We trust to thy protecting power In this, our country's saddest hour, And pray that thou wilt spread thy shield Above us in the camp and field. O God of battles! let thy might Protect our armies in the fight-- Till they shall win the victory, And set the hapless bondmen free. Till, guided by thy glorious hand, Those armies reunite the land, And North and South alike shall raise To God their peaceful hymns of praise
t” to the Constitution: But claimed a “higher law” --and brought on revotion. They did all this; and sadly they defamed Their country in the ears of all mankind “Barbarians” were their countrymen, who claimed The rights the Constitution had defined. Resistance to the statutes was proclaimed The pious duty of a people so refined! And all this madness, tending or intended, To rend the Union--as we've seen it rended. But — Davis, Yancey, Keitt, and Beauregard, Slidell and Mason, Toombs and Benjamin, Et id genus omne!--what reward Were match to your immeasurable sin Against your God and country? 'Twere as hard To measure your offences, as it's been To estimate the wretchedness abounding, Since Mars his brazen trumpet has been sounding. What demon could possess you to abandon The Union--and your rights as Union men? The Constitution was enough to stand on; And on it were arrayed a host of men, Prepared to lay a strong, suppressing hand on The mad fanatics, who assailed you then.
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