He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.

1861.

STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY

(BY JOHN W. PALMER)

Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,

Stir up the camp-fire bright;

No matter if the canteen fails,

We'll make a roaring night.

Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
To swell the brigade's rousing song
Of "Stonewall Jackson's Way."

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1862.

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We see him now-the old slouched hat
Cocked o'er his eye askew;

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The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,
So calm, so blunt, so true.

The "Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well:

Says he, "That 's Banks-he 's fond of shell;
Lord save his soul! we 'll give him—" well,
That's "Stonewall Jackson's Way."

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Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off!
Old Blue-Light 's going to pray.
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!

Attention! it's his way.

Appealing from his native sod,

In forma pauperis to God

"Lay bare thine arm, stretch forth thy rod!

Amen!" That 's "Stonewall's Way."

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1862.

"Quick-step! we 're with him before dawn!"

That 's "Stonewall Jackson's Way."

The sun's bright lances rout the mists
Of morning, and, by George,
Here's Longstreet struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge.

Pope and his Yankees, whipped before,
"Bay'nets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar;
"Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score!"
Is "Stonewall Jackson's Way."

Ah, maiden, wait and watch and yearn
For news of Stonewall's band!

Ah, widow, read with eyes that burn

That ring upon thy hand.
Ah, wife, sew on, pray on, hope on!
Thy life shall not be all forlorn.
The foe had better ne'er been born
That gets in "Stonewall's Way."

FROM

THE SONG OF THE REBEL

(BY JOHN ESTEN COOK)

One form alone remains behind;

And lo, the figure comes,
Not with the tinsel Yankee pomp
Or din of rolling drums:

Wrapped in his old gray riding-cape,

A grizzled chevalier,

See Lee, our spotless Southern Knight,
"Without reproach or fear"!

We know him well, our captain,

The foremost man of all,

1864.

The breeze that sighed across his brow,

And smoothed its deepened lines, Fresh from his own loved mountains bore

The murmur of their pines, And the glad sound of waters,

The blue rejoicing streams

Whose sweet familiar tones were blent

With the music of his dreams:

They brought no sound of battle's din,
Shrill fife, or clarion,

But only tenderest memories

Of his own fair Arlington; With, perhaps, a grander vision Which, alas, was not to be, Of a new-born banner floating

O'er a land redeemed and free. While thus the chieftain slumbered.

Forgetful of his care,

The hollow tramp of thousands

Came sounding through the air: With ringing spur and sabre

And trampling feet they come,
Gay plume and rustling banner,
And fife and trump and drum.
But soon the foremost column

Sees where, beneath the shade.
In slumber calm as childhood,
Their wearied chief is laid;
And down the line a murmur
From lip to lip there ran,
Until the stilly whisper

Had spread to rear and van;
And o'er the host a silence

As deep and sudden fell

As though some mighty wizard

Had hushed them with a spell;
And every sound was muffled,
And every soldier's tread
Fell lightly as a mother's

Round her baby's cradle-bed;
And rank and file and column

So softly on they swept

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It seemed a ghostly army

Had passed him as he slept:
But mightier than enchantment

Was that whose magic wove
The spell that hushed their voices-
Deepest reverence and love.

CAVALRY-SONG

(BY ELBRIDGE J. CUTLER)

1866.

The squadron is forming, the war-bugles play:
To saddle, brave comrades, stout hearts for a fray!
Our captain is mounted-strike spurs and away!

No breeze shakes the blossoms or tosses the grain,
But the wind of our speed floats the galloper's mane
As he feels the bold rider's firm hand on the rein.

Lo, dim in the starlight their white tents appear!
Ride softly, ride slowly, the onset is near!
More slowly, more softly, the sentry may hear!

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Now fall on the Rebel-a tempest of flame!

IO

Strike down the false banner whose triumph were shame!
Strike, strike for the true flag, for Freedom and Fame!

Hurrah, sheathe your swords! the carnage is done.

All red with our valor, we welcome the sun.

Up, up with the stars! we have won! we have won!

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1864.

SHERIDAN'S RIDE

(BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ)

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.

/

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