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Browsing named entities in a specific section of Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 7. (ed. Frank Moore). Search the whole document.

Found 4 total hits in 4 results.

Rouse (search for this): chapter 188
Drum. by J. R. G. Pitkin. I. Drum! Drum! drum! drum! drum! Drum! On they come. While throbs a stern, responsive beat Of martial lines of measured feet, Down, down the stony street. And thousands wait At door and gate, To bless each form Who dares the storm, And every tie Can waive, to die When Treason's hand Assails his land. And thus to greet Brave souls, they meet, While horrid fears Rouse abject tears, And all Appall! God's will be done-- God bless them all! For such have won Half, ere their call! There woman stands With clonic hands I Such woes infest Her tender breast; Her eyelids drip, While the dumb lip Essays in vain To crush its pain ‘Neath smiling mask-- Self-cruel task! In vain, in vain-- Hearts cannot feign When their full swell Bursts with farewell! That buried face, That shrieking phrase, That dismal chill As horrors thrill-- All, all confess A keen distress! And while thus wildly quakes her woe Drum, drum, drum! On they go! Drum! And loudly throbs that solemn b
Laud (search for this): chapter 188
rt! Keen with the smart, She blankly stares With fickle glares, Her palm close-pressed Against her breast, And dumbly reels! She knows or feels Not now the blow Of death and woe! Nay, do not wake Her now, the ache Of sore regret She feels not yet. The awful shock Hath stunned to rock! God stay the fang! God help the pang! God bless them all! Who dared to fall Face to the foe When blow on blow In death crushed low, Yet with a front No foe could daunt, Still looked with proud White face to God! Laud high their deed-- Crowns are their meed! Ah! few remain To tell the pain, The frenzied strife And wasted life Of that red day! In sad array They pass along With silent tongue, And brows sublime With scars and grime! And slowly throbs that solemn beat Of martial lines of weary feet Down, down the stony street! And loud reverberant from the ground, The city's walls exultant sound The lordly metre, deep and strong, That proudly wakes the awe-struck throng; Till on their beats from heart to hear
J. R. G. Pitkin (search for this): chapter 188
Drum. by J. R. G. Pitkin. I. Drum! Drum! drum! drum! drum! Drum! On they come. While throbs a stern, responsive beat Of martial lines of measured feet, Down, down the stony street. And thousands wait At door and gate, To bless each form Who dares the storm, And every tie Can waive, to die When Treason's hand Assails his land. And thus to greet Brave souls, they meet, While horrid fears Rouse abject tears, And all Appall! God's will be done-- God bless them all! For such have won Half, ere their call! There woman stands With clonic hands I Such woes infest Her tender breast; Her eyelids drip, While the dumb lip Essays in vain To crush its pain ‘Neath smiling mask-- Self-cruel task! In vain, in vain-- Hearts cannot feign When their full swell Bursts with farewell! That buried face, That shrieking phrase, That dismal chill As horrors thrill-- All, all confess A keen distress! And while thus wildly quakes her woe Drum, drum, drum! On they go! Drum! And loudly throbs that solemn b
Martha White (search for this): chapter 188
erced one poor heart! Keen with the smart, She blankly stares With fickle glares, Her palm close-pressed Against her breast, And dumbly reels! She knows or feels Not now the blow Of death and woe! Nay, do not wake Her now, the ache Of sore regret She feels not yet. The awful shock Hath stunned to rock! God stay the fang! God help the pang! God bless them all! Who dared to fall Face to the foe When blow on blow In death crushed low, Yet with a front No foe could daunt, Still looked with proud White face to God! Laud high their deed-- Crowns are their meed! Ah! few remain To tell the pain, The frenzied strife And wasted life Of that red day! In sad array They pass along With silent tongue, And brows sublime With scars and grime! And slowly throbs that solemn beat Of martial lines of weary feet Down, down the stony street! And loud reverberant from the ground, The city's walls exultant sound The lordly metre, deep and strong, That proudly wakes the awe-struck throng; Till on their beats