From vast Niagara's gurgling roar The God of Nations, in whose name Will bless our fond endeavor "The Union," then, 66 come weal, come woe," We will preserve forever! JEREMIAH W. CUMMINGS. 31. OUR FLAG IS THERE. Written by an American naval officer, 1812. OUR flag is there, our flag is there, Behold the glorious Stripes and Stars. That flag has stood the battle's roar, That flag is known on every shore, Alike unstained in peace or war, It floats o'er Freedom's happy land. PART VII. MEMORABLE BATTLE-FIELDS AND INCIDENTS. 1. THE BATTLE-FIELD. ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Ah, never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave, Soon rested those who fought; but thou, Yet, nerve thy spirit to the proof, The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown, yet faint thou not! Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again: Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When those who helped thee flee in fear, Like those who fell in battle here. Another hand thy sword shall wield, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed 2. THE HONORED DEAD. THEY that die for a good cause are redeemed from death. Their names are gathered and garnered. Their memory is precious. Each place grows proud for them who were born there. Children shall grow up under more sacred inspirations whose elder brothers, dying nobly for country, left a name that honored and inspired all who bore it. Orphan children shall find thousands of fathers and mothers to love and help those whom dying heroes left as a legacy to the gratitude of the public. Oh, tell me not that they are dead, that generous host, that airy army of invisible heroes! They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead who speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people with nobler motives and more heroic patriotism? Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears. He was your son; but now he is the nation's. He made your household bright; now his example inspires a thousand households. Dear to his brothers and sisters, he is now brother to every generous youth in the land. Before, he was narrowed, appropriated, shut up to you; now he is augmented, set free, and given to all. He has died from the family, that he might live to the nation! Neither are they less honored who shall bear through life the marks of wounds and sufferings. So strange is the transforming power of patriotic ardor that men shall almost covet disfigurement; and buoyant children shall pause in their noisy games, and with loving reverence honor them whose hands can work no more, and whose feet are no longer able to march, except upon that journey which brings good men to honor and immortality. Oh, mother of lost children! set not in darkness nor sorrow whom a nation honors! Oh, mourners of the early dead! they shall live again, and forever! The Nation lives, because you gave it men that loved it better than their own lives. And when a few more days shall have cleared the perils from around the Nation's brow, and she shall sit in unsullied garments of liberty, with justice upon her forehead, love in her eyes, and truth upon her lips, she shall not forget those whose blood gave vital currents to her heart, and whose life, given to her, shall live with her life, till time shall be no more. Every mountain and hill shall have its treasured name, every river shall keep some solemn title, every valley and every lake shall cherish its honored register; and till the mountains are worn out, and the rivers forget to flow, till the clouds are weary of replenishing springs, and the springs forget to gush, and the rills to sing, shall their names be kept fresh with reverent honors, which are inscribed upon the book of National Remembrance! HENRY WARD BEECHER. 3. THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo; No more on life's parade shall meet And Glory guards with solemn round No rumor of the foe's advance No troubled thought at midnight haunts No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; Their shivered swords are red with rust; And plenteous funeral tears have washed And the proud forms, by battle gashed, The neighing troop,1 the flashing blade, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, Those breasts that nevermore shall feel 1 Captain May's troop of dragoons at Buena Vista. |