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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 12 total hits in 6 results.

Saratoga, N. Y. (New York, United States) (search for this): chapter 82
A battle poem. by Benj. F. Taylor. Break up camp, drowsy World! For the shrouds are unfurled, And the dead drummers beat the long roll through the morn, And the bugle-blown orders Invade the dumb borders Where the grave-digger dreamed he had laid them forlorn. From old Saratoga, From old Ticonderoga, From Bennington, Bunker, and Lexington Green, They have marched back sublime To the sentries of time, And have passed on triumphant, unchallenged between! I can hear the flint-locks,-- The old click of the clocks That timed Liberty's step to no pendulum swing! When the bullets all sped, Woman smilingly said, “Let us charm the dull weights till they fly and they sing!” Ah! those old blackened ladles Where Glory's own cradles! Rocked a red-coat to sleep with each birth from the mould, And the old fashioned-fire Blazed hotter and higher, Till it welded the New World and walled out the Old. By battalions they come, To the snarl of the drum! Bleeding feet that turn beautiful, printing
Bennington, Vt. (Vermont, United States) (search for this): chapter 82
A battle poem. by Benj. F. Taylor. Break up camp, drowsy World! For the shrouds are unfurled, And the dead drummers beat the long roll through the morn, And the bugle-blown orders Invade the dumb borders Where the grave-digger dreamed he had laid them forlorn. From old Saratoga, From old Ticonderoga, From Bennington, Bunker, and Lexington Green, They have marched back sublime To the sentries of time, And have passed on triumphant, unchallenged between! I can hear the flint-locks,-- The old click of the clocks That timed Liberty's step to no pendulum swing! When the bullets all sped, Woman smilingly said, “Let us charm the dull weights till they fly and they sing!” Ah! those old blackened ladles Where Glory's own cradles! Rocked a red-coat to sleep with each birth from the mould, And the old fashioned-fire Blazed hotter and higher, Till it welded the New World and walled out the Old. By battalions they come, To the snarl of the drum! Bleeding feet that turn beautiful, printing
Ticonderoga (New York, United States) (search for this): chapter 82
A battle poem. by Benj. F. Taylor. Break up camp, drowsy World! For the shrouds are unfurled, And the dead drummers beat the long roll through the morn, And the bugle-blown orders Invade the dumb borders Where the grave-digger dreamed he had laid them forlorn. From old Saratoga, From old Ticonderoga, From Bennington, Bunker, and Lexington Green, They have marched back sublime To the sentries of time, And have passed on triumphant, unchallenged between! I can hear the flint-locks,-- The old click of the clocks That timed Liberty's step to no pendulum swing! When the bullets all sped, Woman smilingly said, “Let us charm the dull weights till they fly and they sing!” Ah! those old blackened ladles Where Glory's own cradles! Rocked a red-coat to sleep with each birth from the mould, And the old fashioned-fire Blazed hotter and higher, Till it welded the New World and walled out the Old. By battalions they come, To the snarl of the drum! Bleeding feet that turn beautiful, printing
Benjamin F. Taylor (search for this): chapter 82
A battle poem. by Benj. F. Taylor. Break up camp, drowsy World! For the shrouds are unfurled, And the dead drummers beat the long roll through the morn, And the bugle-blown orders Invade the dumb borders Where the grave-digger dreamed he had laid them forlorn. From old Saratoga, From old Ticonderoga, From Bennington, Bunker, and Lexington Green, They have marched back sublime To the sentries of time, And have passed on triumphant, unchallenged between! I can hear the flint-locks,-- The old click of the clocks That timed Liberty's step to no pendulum swing! When the bullets all sped, Woman smilingly said, “Let us charm the dull weights till they fly and they sing!” Ah! those old blackened ladles Where Glory's own cradles! Rocked a red-coat to sleep with each birth from the mould, And the old fashioned-fire Blazed hotter and higher, Till it welded the New World and walled out the Old. By battalions they come, To the snarl of the drum! Bleeding feet that turn beautiful, printing
Mars (search for this): chapter 82
rds, too, that clank by their side, And the dead soldiers deaden the strokes iron shod, As they gallop right on o'er the plashy red sod: Right into the cloud all spectral and dim, Right up to the guns, black throated and grim, Right down on the hedges bordered with steel, Right through the dense columns, then “Right about wheel!” Hurrah! a new swath through the harvest again! Hurrah for the Flag! To the battle, amen! O glimpse of clear heaven! Artillery riven! The Fathers' old fallow God seeded with Stars-- Thy furrows were turning When ploughshares were burning, And the half of each “bout” is redder than Mars! Flaunt forever thy story, O wardrobe of glory! Where the Fathers laid down their mantles of blue, And challenged the ages, O grandest of pages! In covenant solemn, eternal, and true. O Flag glory-rifted! To-day thunder-drifted, Like a flower of strange grace on the crest of a surge, On some Federal fold A new tale shall be told, And the record immortal emblazon thy
Bunker (search for this): chapter 82
A battle poem. by Benj. F. Taylor. Break up camp, drowsy World! For the shrouds are unfurled, And the dead drummers beat the long roll through the morn, And the bugle-blown orders Invade the dumb borders Where the grave-digger dreamed he had laid them forlorn. From old Saratoga, From old Ticonderoga, From Bennington, Bunker, and Lexington Green, They have marched back sublime To the sentries of time, And have passed on triumphant, unchallenged between! I can hear the flint-locks,-- The old click of the clocks That timed Liberty's step to no pendulum swing! When the bullets all sped, Woman smilingly said, “Let us charm the dull weights till they fly and they sing!” Ah! those old blackened ladles Where Glory's own cradles! Rocked a red-coat to sleep with each birth from the mould, And the old fashioned-fire Blazed hotter and higher, Till it welded the New World and walled out the Old. By battalions they come, To the snarl of the drum! Bleeding feet that turn beautiful, printing