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50. Col. Corcoran's brigade.

     Prompt to the gathering summons,
True as the lifted steel,
     Into the foremost phalanx,
See where their columns wheel!

     Souls of the careless daring!
Souls of the trustful love!
     Hear you the voices swelling
Ever your march above?

     Tones of your mournful mother,
Reft of her queenly dower,
     Pale at the gate of nations,
Waiting her destined hour!

[35] IV.
     Strains from the hills where Summer
Empties her lap of flowers!
     Strains from the woods that glisten
Wet with the noonday showers!

     See you the graceful shadows
Gliding around you there!
     Shapes with the gleaming helmet
Over their flowing hair!

     Forms of a softer beauty!
Heads with the Eastern veil!
     Eyes of a dewy splendor!
Shades of the buried Gael!

     Oh! for their clouded glory,
“Sons of the ancient race!”
     Still, in the rushing battle,
Yours be the victor's place!

     Spells from the past be with you,
To charm the shields you bear!
     Might from the secret voices
Lifted in woman's prayer!

--New York Leader.

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