IX.

I'm ready, General, so you let a post to me be given,

Where Washington can see me, as he looks from highest heaven,

And say to Putnam at his side, or, may be, General Wayne ;

There stands old Billy Johnson, that fought at Lundy's Lane!'

X.

"And when the fight is hottest, before the traitors

fly,

When shell and ball are screeching and bursting in the sky,

If any shot should hit me, and lay me on my face, My soul would go to Washington's, and not to Arnold's place!"

May, 1861.

MARCH.

ITH rushing winds and gloomy skies
The dark and stubborn Winter dies.
Far-off, unseen, Spring faintly cries,
Bidding her earliest child arise :

By streams still held in icy snare,
On southern hillsides, melting bare,
O'er fields that motley colors wear,
That summons fills the changeful air:

March!

March!

What though conflicting seasons make
Thy days their field, they woo or shake
The sleeping lids of Life awake,
And hope is stronger for thy sake,

March!

Then from thy mountains, ribbed with snow,
Once more thy rousing bugle blow,
And East and West, and to and fro,
Announce thy coming to the foe,

March!

Say to the picket, chilled and numb;
Say to the camp's impatient hum;
Say to the trumpet and the drum :
"Lift up your hearts, I come! I come!"

March!

Cry to the waiting hosts that stray
On sandy seasides, far away,

By marshy isle and gleaming bay,

Where Southern March is Northern May:

Announce thyself with welcome noise,
Where Glory's victor-eagles poise
Above the proud, heroic boys

March!

Of Iowa and Illinois :

March!

Then down the long Potomac's line
Shout like a storm on hills of pine,

Till ramrods ring and bayonets shine:
"Advance! The Chieftain's call is mine,

MARCH!"

March 1, 1862.

A THOUSAND YEARS.

[NOVGOROD, RUSSIA, SEPT. 20, 1862.]

THOUSAND years! Through storm and fire,

With varying fate, the work has grown, Till Alexander crowns the spire, Where Rurik laid the corner-stone.

The chieftain's sword, that could not rust,
But bright in constant battle grew,
Raised to the world a throne august,
A nation grander than he knew.

Nor he, alone; but those who have,
Through faith or deed, an equal part:
The subtle brain of Yaroslav,

Vladimir's arm and Nikon's heart:

The later hands, that built so well

The work sublime which these began, And up from base to pinnacle

Wrought out the Empire's mighty plan.

All these, to-day, are crowned anew,
And rule in splendor where they trod,
While Russia's children throng to view
Her holy cradle, Novgorod.

From Volga's banks; from Dwina's side;
From pine-clad Ural, dark and long ;
Or where the foaming Terek's tide

Leaps down from Kasbek, bright with song:

From Altaï's chain of mountain-cones;
Mongolian deserts, far and free;

And lands that bind, through changing zones,
The Eastern and the Western sea!

To every race she gives a home,

And creeds and laws enjoy her shade, Till, far beyond the dreams of Rome, Her Cæsar's mandate is obeyed.

She blends the virtues they impart,
And holds, within her life combined,
The patient faith of Asia's heart, —

The force of Europe's restless mind.

She bids the nomad's wanderings cease;
She binds the wild marauder fast;
Her ploughshares turn to homes of peace
The battle-fields of ages past.

And, nobler yet, she dares to know

Her future's task, nor knows in vain; But strikes at once the generous blow That makes her millions men again!

So, firmer-based, her power expands,
Nor yet has seen its crowning hour, -
Still teaching to the struggling lands

That Peace the offspring is of Power.

Build, then, the storied bronze, to tell

The steps whereby this height she trod,· The thousand years that chronicle

The toil of Man, the help of God!

And may the thousand years to come,-
The future ages, wise and free, -
Still see her flag, and hear her drum
Across the world, from sea to sea!

Still find, a symbol stern and grand,
Her ancient eagle's wings unshorn :
One head to watch the Western land,
And one to guard the land of morn!

A DAY IN MARCH.

OOK forth, Beloved, from thy mansion high,

By soft airs fanned,

And see the summer from her bluest sky
Surprise the land!

See how the bare hills bask in purple bliss
Along the south:

On the brown death of winter falls a kiss

From summer's mouth!

From pines that weave, among the ravished trees,
Their phantom bowers,

A murmur comes, as sought the ghosts of bees
The ghosts of flowers.