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In this land; or bound
Down, like the whining hound
Bound with red stripes of pain
In our old chains again!"

Oh! what a shout there went
From the black regiment!

"Charge!" Trump and drum awoke, Onward the bondmen broke:

Bayonet and sabre-stroke

Vainly opposed their rush.

Through the wild battle's crush,
With but one thought aflush,
Driving their lords like chaff,
In the guns' mouths they laugh;
Or at the slippery brands
Leaping with open hands,
Down they tear man and horse,
Down in their awful course;
Trampling with bloody heel
Over the crashing steel,
All their eyes forward bent,
Rushed the black regiment.

"Freedom!" their battle-cry,
"Freedom! or learn to die!"
Ah! and they meant the word,
Not as with us 't is heard,

Not a mere party shout:
They gave their spirits out;
Trusted the end to God,

And on the gory sod

Rolled in triumphant blood.
Glad to strike one free blow,
Whether for weal or woe;

Glad to breathe one free breath,
Though on the lips of death.
Praying-alas! in vain!-
That they might fall again,
So they could once more see
That burst to liberty!

This was what "freedom" lent
To the black regiment.

Hundreds on hundreds fell,
But they are resting well;
Scourges and shackles strong
Never shall do them wrong.
Oh, to the living few,
Soldiers, be just and true!
Hail them as comrades tried;
Fight with them side by side;
Never, in field or tent,

Scorn the black regiment.

THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA.

At the terrible fight of Buena Vista, Mexican women were seen hovering near the field of death, for the purpose of giving aid and succor to the wounded. One poor woman was found surrounded by the maimed and suffering of both armies, ministering to the wants of Americans as well as Mexicans with impartial tenderness.

SPEA

PEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away, O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array,

Who is losing? who is winning? are they far, or come they near? Look abroad and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear.

"Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreats and now advances! Right against the blazing cannon shiver Puebla's charging lances! Down they go, the brave young riders: horse and foot together

fall;

Like the ploughshare in its furrow, through them ploughs the northern ball."

"Oh, my heart's love! oh, my dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee;

Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me, canst thou see?

Oh, my husband, brave and gentle! Oh, my Bernal, look once

more

On the blessed Cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is o'er!"

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest;
Let his hands be meekly folded; lay the Cross upon his breast;
Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said;
To-day, thou poor, bereaved one, the living ask thy aid.

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life

away;

But, as tenderly before him then the lorn.Ximena knelt,

She saw the northern hostile eagle shining on his pistol-belt.

With a stifled cry of horror, straight she turned away her head; With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead; But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain,

And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again.

"A bitter curse upon them, boy, who to battle led thee forth, From some gentle, saddened mother, weeping lonely in the

North!"

Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead,

And turned to soothe the living still, and bind the wounds which bled.

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Like a cloud before the wind Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind:

Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded strive;

Hide your faces, holy angels! Oh, thou Christ of God, forgive!"

Sink, O night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall;

Dying brothers, fighting demons-drop thy curtain over all! Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle

rolled,

In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold.

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint, and lacking food;

Over weak and suffering brothers with a tender care they hung, And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and northern

tongue.

Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours;

Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh its Eden flowers;

From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer, And still Thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air.

W

TRUE ELOQUENCE.

HEN public bodies are to be addressed on momentous occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong passions excited, nothing is valuable in speech further than it is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force, and earnestness, are the qualities which produce conviction.

True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshalled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion.

Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it; they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force.

The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and their country, hang on the decision of the hour. Then, words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities.

Then, patriotism is eloquent; then, self-devotion is eloquent. The clear conception, outrunning the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and

urging the whole man onward, right onward to his object—this, this is eloquence; or, rather, it is something greater and higher than all eloquence- it is action, noble, sublime, godlike action.

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And four-and-twenty happy boys

Came bounding out of school:

There were some that ran, and. some that leapt,

Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped, with gamesome minds,

And souls untouch'd by sin;

To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran

Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can;

But the usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man!

His hat was off, his vest apart,

To catch heaven's blessed breeze;

For a burning thought was in his brow,

And his bosom ill at ease:

So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read

The book between his knees.

Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er,

Nor ever glanced aside,

For the peace of his soul he read that book

In the golden eventide:

Much study had made him very lean,

And pale, and leaden-eyed.

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