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Grant at Chattanooga.

by James B. Everhart.
There went up a wail of sorrow
From all the loyal land--
There went up a shout of triumph
From every rebel band;
For the banks of Chickamauga
Beheld our smitten host,
And the banks of Chickamauga
Made good the rebel boast.

And trade through all our cities
Was staggered by the blow,
And down, with its torn banner, fell
The nation's credit low.
In the market and the warehouse,
The pulpit and the press,
In the parlors and the highways
Was seen the sore distress.

Good men beyond the ocean,
The poor of every soil,
And the negro, like a culprit,
Chained to his daily toil,
Felt, each, the dire disaster--
Feared, each, a darker hour--
Feared, all, this cursed prestige
Of fell barbaric power.

Now many a brave heart trembled;
Many a weak one sighed;
Many a prayer was offered up
To turn the battle's tide;
Will our God forsake his children,
And turn away his face?
Will the cause of truth go under,
And crime usurp its place?

Will the fields of so much glory,
Will all the martyrs slain,
Will our history and altars
And all our hopes be vain?
Oh! for a sign in heaven,
Such as the Kaiser saw--
Oh! for some gifted hero,
His conquering sword to draw!

So some doubted and debated,
And marvelled and deplored--
With unswerving faith some waited
The justice of the Lord.
Soon, brighter than the morning fire,
His stately steps are seen--
Chariots, blazing with his ire,
Amongst the clouds careen!

Now! Grant girds on his armor,
And leads his legions forth--
For in the fray that comes to-day
Jehovah's with the North!
And he bids his trusty captains,
That at the signal peal,
Their ranks shall scale, through iron hail,
The mountain sides with steel.

The columns, swiftly formed in line,
Move gaily o'er the field,
As if they know the haughty foe
Is sure to fly or yield.
And, rebels, now look to your works,
See that your aim be true,
For Grant commands those loyal bands,
And this is no review.

Full fierce the mighty struggle swells;
Death roars from every gun,
While through a flood of human blood
The rifle-pits are won.
Our forces follow up the steep,
Loud shouting as they go,
Nor heed the shot that, thick and hot,
Come crashing fast below.

[91] And when they gain the crested ridge,
The clouds beneath them lie,
And down afar it seems a war
Of demons in the sky.
Round them rolls the sulph'rous smoke
That follows ball and bomb,
While thunders boom, as if the doom
Of all the earth had come.

They reach the very last redoubt,
Hell yawns at every fire;
Midst sword and lead, o'er piles of dead,
The rebel hordes retire;
And routed, scattered, and dismayed,
Far flee these lords of slaves,
While flashing bright, on every height,
The flag of freedom waves!

All honor, then, to all our men,
To leaders and to guard,
Who bared their life in mortal strife,
Or who kept watch and ward;
And praises to the Lord of Hosts,
Whom nations must obey,
That he did bide, all by our side,
On Chattanooga's day!

Let holy tears bedew the graves
Of those who fell in fight;
Let marble stones, above their bones,
Salute the morning light;
Let history write in golden books;
Let bards with song enshrine;
Let women chant the name of Grant,
And the glory of the Line!

West-Chester, Pa.

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