Sparks from the Camp Fire: Or, Tales of the Old Veterans. Thrilling Stories of Heroic Deeds ... as Re-told Today Around the Modern Camp Fire

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Joseph W. Morton
Keystone Publishing Company, 1890 - 566 oldal
 

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304. oldal - Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die, Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
550. oldal - Till the war drum throbs no longer and the battle flags are furled In the Parliament of man, the federation of the world.
459. oldal - When I can read my title clear To mansions in the skies, I'll bid farewell to every fear, And wipe my weeping eyes.
550. oldal - And trims his helmet's plume ; When the goodwife's shuttle merrily Goes flashing through the loom ; With weeping and with laughter Still is the story told, How well Horatius kept the bridge In the brave days of old.
452. oldal - I fell in a revery, sad and sweet, And then to a fitful slumber. When, lo ! in a vision I seemed to stand In the lonely Capitol. On each hand Far stretched the portico ; dim and grand Its columns ranged, like a martial band Of sheeted spectres whom some command Had called to a last reviewing. And the streets of the city were white and bare ; No footfall echoed across the square ; But out of the misty midnight air I heard in the distance a trumpet blare, And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear...
475. oldal - The past rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great struggle for national life. We hear the sounds of preparation — the music of boisterous drums — the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators. We see the pale cheeks of women, and the flushed faces of men ; and in those assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers.
476. oldal - Four million bodies in chains — four million souls in fetters ! All the sacred relations of wife, mother, father, and child trampled beneath the brutal feet of might. And all this was done under our own beautiful banner of the free.
453. oldal - That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp, Nor wasted bivouac fires. And I saw a phantom army come, With never a sound of fife or drum, But keeping time to a throbbing hum Of wailing and lamentation: The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill, Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville, The men whose wasted figures fill The patriot graves of the nation.
459. oldal - Should earth against my soul engage, And hellish darts be hurled, Then I can smile at Satan's rage, And face a frowning world. 3. ' Let cares, like a wild deluge, come, And storms of sorrow fall ; May I but safely reach my home, My God, my heaven, my all ; — 4.
475. oldal - ... the last time in quiet, woody places with the maidens they adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as they lingeringly part forever. Others are bending over cradles kissing babes that are asleep.

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