For the cross of our faith is replanted, The pale dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves.

Their spirits are hovering o'er us, And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succor advances, Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances Are stretched in our aid--be the combat our own!

And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone; For we've sworn by our country's a.s.saulters, By the virgins they've dragged from our altars, By our ma.s.sacred patriots, our children in chains, By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins, That, living, we shall be victorious, Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not; The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not!

Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.

Earth may hide--waves engulf--fire consume us, But they shall not to slavery doom us: If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves; But we've smote them already with fire on the waves, And new triumphs on the land are before us, To the charge!--Heaven's banner is o'er us.

This day shall ye blush for its story, Or brighten your lives with its glory.

Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair?

Accursed may his memory blacken, If a coward there be that would slacken Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from and named for the G.o.dlike of earth.

Strike home, and the world shall revere us As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean; Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring, And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon's spring: Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness, That were cold and extinguished in sadness; Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms, Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms, When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

SHERIDAN'S RIDE.

OCTOBER 19, 1864.

Up from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar; And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold, As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town, A good broad highway leading down; And there, through the flash of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night Was seen to pa.s.s as with eagle flight; As if he knew the terrible need, He stretched away with the utmost speed; Hills rose and fell--but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; On the tail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Forboding to traitors the doom of disaster.

The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners a.s.saulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battlefield calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape flowed away behind, Like an ocean flying before the wind; And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire; But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire, He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; What was done--what to do--a glance told him both, Then, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, He dashed down the lines 'mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause.

With foam and with dust the black charger was gray, By the flash of his eye and the red nostril's play He seemed to the whole great army to say: "I've brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down to save the day!"

Hurrah! hurrah! for Sheridan!

Hurrah! hurrah! for horse and man!

And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky-- The American soldier's temple of fame-- There with the glorious General's name, Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: "Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight From Winchester, twenty miles away!"

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE HURRICANE.

Lord of the winds! I feel thee nigh, I know thy breath in the burning sky!

And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, For the coming of the hurricane!

And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails; Silent and slow, and terribly strong, The mighty shadow is borne along, Like the dark eternity to come; While the world below, dismayed and dumb, Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere, Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear.

They darken fast; and the golden blaze Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, And he sends through the shade a funeral ray-- A glare that is neither night nor day, A beam that touches, with hues of death, The clouds above and the earth beneath.

To its covert glides the silent bird, While the hurricane's distant voice is heard Uplifted among the mountains round, And the forests hear and answer the sound.

He is come! he is come! do ye not behold His ample robes on the winds unrolled?

Giant of air! we bid thee hail!-- How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale: How his huge and writhing arms are bent, To clasp the zone of the firmament, And fold at length, in their dark embrace, From mountain to mountain the visible s.p.a.ce.

Darker--still darker! the whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air: And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of G.o.d in the thundercloud!

You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, And flood the skies with a lurid glow.

What roar is that?--'tis the rain that breaks In torrents away from the airy lakes, Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, And shedding a nameless horror round.

Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, With the very clouds!--ye are lost to my eyes.

I seek ye vainly, and see in your place The shadowy tempest that sweeps through s.p.a.ce, A whirling ocean that fills the wall Of the crystal heaven, and buries all.

And I, cut off from the world, remain Alone with the terrible hurricane.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

[Ill.u.s.tration: JOSEPH ADDISON.]

WHEN ALL THY MERCIES, O MY G.o.d.

When all Thy mercies, O my G.o.d, My rising soul surveys; Transported with the view, I'm lost In wonder, love, and praise.

O how shall words with equal warmth The grat.i.tude declare That glows within my ravished heart!

But Thou canst read it there.

Unnumbered comforts on my soul Thy tender care bestowed, Before my infant heart conceived From whom these comforts flowed.

Ten thousand thousand precious gifts My daily thanks employ; Nor is the least a cheerful heart, That tastes those gifts with joy.

Through every period of my life, Thy goodness I'll pursue; And after death in distant worlds, The glorious theme renew.

Through all eternity, to Thee A joyful song I'll raise; For, oh! eternity's too short To utter all Thy praise.

JOSEPH ADDISON.