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2. victory.

by Lizzie E. H. Bates.
All the day the stormy clouds
     Have been drifting overhead
In the wind, like misty shrouds
     For the brave and noble dead;
But the sun with genial glow
     Breaks the sombre veil at last,
Like to the exultant show
     Victors make when battle's past.

Listen! Hear the deepening roar
     Shaking earth, and air, and sky,
From the distant river shore--
     How its echoes thunder by!
Does an earthquake stalk abroad
     O'er Missouri's fated soil,
Making one vast grave her sod
     While her rivers seethe and boil?

Listen! No! It is the boom
     Of the cannon's fearful notes,
While the wreaths of battle bloom
     All around their bellowing throats!
Listen! No! It cannot be!
     Price is still in full retreat,
And our troops in Tennessee
     Rebel arms shall ne'er defeat!

Listen! Still the ceaseless roar
     Peals along the quivering air,
From the city on the shore
     News of victory it must bear!
Listen! Hear the loud hurrahs
     In the quiet village streets
While the distant thunder jars--
     Echo still with echo meets.

Listen! Loudly peal the bells!
     Listen! Guns are thundering here!
Every thing of victory tells,
     Hearts of millions yearn to hear.
Price is taken, now, at last!
     Donelson has fallen low!
God be praised! the die is cast!
     Vengeance falleth on the foe!

God be praised! His arm of wrath
     Strikes for us this mighty blow--
Leads us on the battle-path--
     Stanches, guides its crimson flow.
God be praised! for soon our land,
     Groaning and convulsed so long,
As in olden time shall stand,
     Union--Freedom blend their song!

Listen! Hear the sighing gale
     Coming up from South to North,
While a lengthened answering wail
     Comes from every quarter forth!
Is it widows' hopeless sighs
     That create the wailing wind?
Is it orphan children's cries
     For the prisoners Death doth bind?

That we conquer cannot bring
     Loved and lost ones back to life--
That Right conquers, Glory sings
     O'er the field of deadly strife; [2]
That Right conquers still, shall be
     Balm for hearts with deepest wound,
And this thought eternally
     Sanctifies the battle-ground!

Bunker Hill, ill., Feb. 17, 1862.

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