BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.

BY JULIA WARD HOWE.

MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fatal lightning of His terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps; His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel:
"As ye deal with My contemners so with you My grace shall deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel!
Since God is marching on."

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.

MR. PUNCH'S TRIBUTE TO LINCOLN.

BY TOM TAYLOR.

[TOM TAYLOR, an English playwright, was born in Sunderland in 1817. He attended Glasgow University, where he won two medals, and graduated at Trinity College, Cambridge. In 1843 he came to London, and for two years held a professorship of English in University College; was called to the bar (1845), and subsequently held several government offices, retiring with a liberal pension in 1872. He early showed a pronounced talent for dramatic authorship, and from 1846 to 1875 turned out over one hundred plays, most of them being translations or adaptations of French plays or stories. The most popular were: "Still Waters Run Deep," ""Twixt Ax and Crown," "Anne Boleyn,"

"The Fool's Revenge," "Masks and Faces" (with Charles Reade), "Lady Clancarty," "Our American Cousin," "Overland Route," "Ticket-ofLeave Man." From 1874 until his death in 1880, he was editor of Punch.]

You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier,
You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace,
Broad for the self-complacent British sneer,

His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair,
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,

His lack of all we prize as debonair,

Of power or will to shine, of art to please;

You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,
Judging each step as though the way were plain:
Reckless, so it could point its paragraph

Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain;

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding sheet
The stars and stripes he lived to rear anew,
Between the mourners at his head and feet,

Say! scurrile jester, is there room for you?

Yes: he had lived to shame me from my sneer;
To lame my pencil, and confute my pen;
To make me own this hind of princes' peer,
This railsplitter a true-born king of men.

My shallow judgment I had learned to rue,
Noting how to occasion's height he rose;

How his quaint wit made home truth seem more true;
How, ironlike, his temper grew by blows.

How humble, yet how hopeful, he could be;
How, in good fortune and in ill, the same;
Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he,

Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.

He went about his work-such work as few
Ever had laid on head and heart and hand-

As one who knows where there's a task to do,

Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command.

Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, That God makes instruments to work his will,

If but that will we can arrive to know

Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.

So he went forth to battle on the side

That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied

His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights;

The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil,

The iron bark that turns the lumberer's ax, The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil,

The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,

The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear,

Such were the deeds that helped his youth to train. Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may bear, If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.

So he grew up, a destined work to do,

And lived to do it; four long-suffering years, Ill fate, ill feeling, ill report, lived through,

And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,

And took both with the same unwavering mood; Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,

And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,

A felon hand, between the goal and him,

Reached from behind his back, a trigger pressed, And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim; Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest!

The words of mercy were upon his lips,

Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men.

The Old World and the New, from sea to sky,
Utter one voice of sympathy and shame:
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high;
Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came!