Foreheads white for lack of light, or brows all brown with grime, Their garments black with soot and slack, or gray with mason's lime, They ring the trowel, push the plane, they travel the stormy deep, They click the type and clang the press, when loved ones are asleep. Through the city street and the country lane their lusty voices ring; By the roaring forge in the mountain gorge this cheery song they sing: Oh, we march away in the early morn, Some are workmen, coarse and strong, and some are craftsmen fine, They set the plow, they steer the raft, they sweat in sunless mine; They lift the sledge and rive the wedge, they hide, with cunning art, The powder where the spark can tear the mountain's granite heart; They reap the fields of ripened grain, and fill the lands with bread; They make the ore give up its gold beneath the stamp mill's tread; They spread the snowy sail aloft, they sweep the dripping seine, They waft the wife a fond farewell, and they ne'er come home again. But they march away in the early morn, They make the fiery furnace flow in streams of spouting steel; They bend the planks and brace the ribs along the oaken keel; They fold the flock, they feed the herd, they in the forest hew, And with the whetstone on the scythe beat labor's sweet tattoo; They climb the coping, swing the crane, and set the capstone high; They stretch the heavy bridge that hangs a roadway in the sky; They speed the shuttle, spin the thread, and weave the silken weft; Or crushed to death amid the wreck, they leave the home bereft. But they march away in the early morn, In ancient days they were but serfs, and by the storied Nile, Unhappy hordes, they drew the cords around the heathen pile. Where Karnak, Tyre, and Carthage stood, where rolls Euphrates' wave, Grim gods look down with stony frown upon the hapless slave. That day is past, thank Heaven, no more does Man the Toiler bow His mighty head with fear and dread, for he is Master now. His hand is strong, his patience long, his wholesome blood is calm, Within his soul sits peace enthroned, and on his lips this psalm: Oh, we march away in the early morn, -Robert McIntyre. THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL. No national drama was ever developed in a more interesting and splendid first scene. The incidents and the result of the battle itself were most important, and indeed most wonderful. As a mere battle, few surpass it in whatever engages and interests the attention. It was fought on a conspicuous eminence, in the immediate neighborhood of a populous city, and consequently in the view of thousands of spectators. The attacking army moved over a sheet of water to the assault. The operations and movements were of course all visible and all distinct. Those who looked on from the houses and heights of Boston had a fuller view of every important operation and event than can ordinarily be had of any battle, or than can possibly be had of such as are fought on a more extended ground, or by detachments of troops acting in different places and at different times, and in some measure independently of each other. When the British columns were advancing to the attack, the flames of Charlestown (fired, as is generally supposed, by a shell) began to ascend. The spectators, far outnumbering both armies, thronged and crowded on every height and every point which afforded a view of the scene, themselves constituted a very important part of it. The troops of the two armies seemed like so many combatants in an amphitheater. The manner in which they should acquit themselves was to be judged of, not, as in other cases of military engagements, by reports and future history, but by a vast and anxious assembly already on the spot, and waiting with unspeakable concern and emotion the progress of the day. In other battles the recollection of wives and children has been used as an excitement to animate the warrior's breast and nerve his arm. Here was not a mere recollection but an actual presence of them and other dear connections, hanging on the skirts of the battle, anxious and agitated, feeling almost as if wounded themselves by every blow of the enemy, and putting forth, as it were, their own strength and all the energy of their own throbbing bosoms, into every gallant effort of their warring friends. But there was a more comprehensive and vastly more important view of that day's contest than has been mentioned,- a view, indeed, which ordinary eyes, bent intently on what was immediately before them, did not embrace, but which was perceived in its full extent and expansion by minds of a |