THE WIDOWED SWORD.

303

To hallow his name;

A land that will love him

Who died for its fame;

And a solace will shine when my old heart is

sore,

Round the sword that my brave boy wore.

All so noble, so true, how they stood, how they fell

In the battle, the plague, and the cold;

Oh, as bravely and well as e'er story could tell
Of the flower of the heroes of old.

Like a sword through the foe
Was that fearful attack,
That so bright ere the blow

Comes so bloodily back;

And foremost among them, his colors he bore, And here is the sword that my brave boy wore.

It was kind of his comrades, ye know not how kind; It is more than the Indies to me;

Ye know not how kind and how steadfast of mind The soldier to sorrow can be.

They know well how lonely,

How grievously wrung,
Is the heart that its only

Love loses so young;

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THE CHANT OF TREASON.

And they closed his dark eyes when the battle

was o'er,

And sent his old father the sword that he wore.

THE CHANT OF TREASON.

BY HENRY BERGH.

WHEN suspicion is lulled, when confidence

reigns,

When daylight departs, and darkness attains;
When innocence sleeps, and honor reposes,
When industry rests on its pillow of roses;
When the justice of man is drugg'd with deceit,
And the plans of the traitor are all complete!
Then goblet on high,

Hark! to his mad cry:

Hurrah! here's success to bold Treason!

What though that ancient and world-honored
State,

Whose laws both protect the small and the great,
That freights every ambient breath of the sea
With tidings of Hope to the Slave - from the

Free?

What though its banner be spangled with stars,

THE CHANT OF TREASON.

Was woven 'mid blood, privations, and scars?
Well! what's that to me?

Come, join in the glee :

Hurrah! here's success to bold Treason!

In every age, and in every clime,

I've lived, and shall live, to the end of Time!
No country have I, no watchword I cry,
I dwell in the soul, I speak through the eye;
In earth in the air in the bubbling stream-
I lurk unsuspected — my sway is supreme!
So, fill up the glass,

And let the toast pass:

Hurrah! here 's success to bold Treason!

In places of trust, in the Forum I sit;
In the Council of State my meshes I knit :
By the side of the nation's honored choice
Is heard my subdued, pestiferous voice;
And the sinews of war the army and fleet -
Are toys for my genius to work out defeat:
So, drink of the bowl,

Without stint or toll:

Hurrah! here's success to bold Treason!

Would'st learn whence I came,

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the name of my

sire?

306

THE CHANT OF TREASON.

I'm issue of Hell, I'm Destruction — dire!
On man's perjured faith, and war's cruel blast;
On the groans of the slave, I make my repast;
In paralyzed trade, — in commerce destroyed,
In national ruin, my means are employed.
Then drink, drink, my friends,

The toast Treason sends:

Hurrah! here 's success to bold Treason!

But, lo! in ocean's indistinct distance,
What ensigns are those in hostile resistance?
How, like a monster in pained respiration,

The sea bears them down, concealing their nation.
Now they rise one is ours
"the skull and cross

bars;"

The other is Freedom's! the proud Stripes and

Stars!

Bang! bang! hear the roar!

It sinks it is o'er!

Hurrah! here 's success to bold Treason!

And yet there are times, I frankly declare,
When these triumphs much more resemble despair;
And that flag which we saw just now in the skies,
With memories haunt me — o'erflowing my eyes;
And could I return nay, heed not, I pray,

I wander in mind, knowing not what I say.

THE FALLEN SOLDIER.

Shout! shout! I implore,
Louder still than before:

Hurrah! here 's success to bold Treason!

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Again yonder flag! sank it not 'neath the main ? Behold, it is up— high as ever again!

What means that acclaim? the plank, spar, and

rope !

Great God, they 're for me! 't is the death-knell of

Hark, hark! to that deaf'ning, triumphant cry;

Fill, fill to the brim,

Chant Columbia's hymn!

Hurrah! here is death to bold Treason!

London American, March, 1861.

THE FALLEN SOLDIER.

BEAR off your comrade, boys! See, he has

fallen;

The blow at his leader aimed, he made his own: Loose from the bridle the stiffened hand, softly: Only this morning it fed his good roan.