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TO THE UNITED STATES.

Wherever the fight is fiercest

I know that my boy will be;
Wherever the need is sorest

Of the stout arms of the free,
May he prove as true to his country
As he has been true to me !

My home is lonely without him,
My heart bereft of joy,

The thought of him who has left me

My constant, sad employ ;

But God has been good to the mother;
She shall not blush for her boy.

TO THE UNITED STATES.

BY MAYNE REID.

H! land of my longings, beyond the Atlantic, What horrible dream has disturbed thy repose What demon has driven thy citizens frantic,

?

A grief to their friends, and a joy to their foes?

Is it true they are arming to kill one another?
That sire and son are in hostile array ?
That brother is baring his blade against brother, -
Each madly preparing the other to slay?

TO THE UNITED STATES.

Is it true the star-banner, so dear to the sight

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Of all freemen, may fall by a factionist's blow, That banner I've borne through the midst of the fight,

Side by side with my sons, as we charged on the foe?

I would not, I will not, I can not believe it!

Oh! rally around it, and stand by the staff! Or the children of men will have reason to grieve it,

And the tyrants of men will exultingly laugh.

Ay, sure would the kings and the princes of earth Greet the fall of thy flag with a joyous “hurrah!"

Even now, scarce suppressing demoniac mirth, They would hail thy decadence with fiendish "Ha, ha!"

And he who would help them to win their foul

game,

Whether Northern or Southern,

which claims him,

no matter

Be a brand on his brow, and a blight on his fame,

And scorn on the lip of the humblest who name

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BATTLE-ANTHEM.

Be palsied the arm that draws sword fratricidal!

May the steel of the traitor be broken in two! May his maiden betrothed, on the morn of his bridal,

Prove faithless to him as he has been to you!

United, no power 'neath heaven can shake thee,

No purple-robed despot e'er smile on thy shame; Asunder, like reeds they will bruise thee and break thee,

And waste thee as flax in the pitiless flame.

Woe, woe to the world, if this fatal division
Should ever arise in the ranks of the free;
Oh, brother! avoid, then, the fearful collision,
And millions unborn will sing praises to thee!

UP, Christian Warrior, up! I hear
The trumpet of the North

Sounding the charge!

Fathers and Sons! to horse!

Fling the Old Standard forth,
Blazing and large!

BATTLE-AN THEM.

And now I hear the heavy tramp
Of nations on the march,

Silent as death!

A slowly gathering host,

Like clouds o'er yonder arch,
Holding their breath!

Our great blue sky is overcast;
And stars are dropping out,
Through smoke and flame!
Hailstones and coals of fire!
Now comes the battle-shout;
Jehovah's name!

And now the rebel pomp! To prayer!
Look to your stirrups, men!
Yonder rides Death!
Now with a whirlwind-sweep!

Empty their saddles when
Hot comes their breath!

As through the midnight forest tears

With trumpeting and fire

A thunder-blast ;

So, Reapers! tear your way

Through yonder camp, until you hear "It is enough! Put up thy sword!

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Into the storm into the roaring jaws of grim Fort

Henry

Boldly bears the Federal flotilla

Into the battle-storm!

II.

Boy Brittan is Master's Mate aboard of the Essex
There he stands buoyant and eager-eyed,
By the brave Captain's side;

Ready to do and dare-aye, aye sir! always ready

In his country's uniform!

Boom! Boom! and now the flag-boat sweeps, and now the Essex,

Into the battle storm!