Peace in the clover-scented air, Ex. CXCVIII.-ADDRESS AT THE CONSECRATION OF THE SOLDIER'S CEMETERY, AT GETTYSBURG, NOVEMBER, 1863. ABRAHAM LINCOLN. FOURSCORE and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We are met to dedicate a portion of it as the final resting-place of those who here gave their lives that the nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here; but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work that they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us,-that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to the cause for which they here gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that the dead shall not have died in vain; that the nation shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom; and that the government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth. LIERARY OF DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. Ex. CXCIX.-DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. GEORGE H. BOKER. CLOSE his eyes, his work is done! As man may, he fought his fight, Lay him low, lay him low, Fold him in his country's stars, What to him are all our wars, In the clover or the snow, What cares he? he can not know! Leave him to God's watching eye, Trust him to the hand that made him; Mortal love weeps idly by; God alone has power to aid him. Lay him low, lay him low, 301 Ex. CC.-AFTER THE BATTLE. THE drums are all muffled, the bugles are still; There's a voice in the wind like a spirit's low cry; As they wait the last trump, which they may not defy! The brave heads late lifted are solemnly bowed, The groans of the death-stricken drowning, There is no mocking blazon, as clay sinks to clay; Nor coffins nor shroudings are here; Only relics that lay where thickest the fray,and a headless spear. A rent casque Far away, tramp on tramp, sounds the march of the foe, Shall darken with sorrow the land where they flow They are fled they are gone; but oh! not as they came ; Never lift the stained sword which they drew; Never more shall they boast of a glorious name, Never march with the leal and the true. A THANKSGIVING HYMN. 303 Where the wreck of our legions lay stranded and torn, From the flash of the steel a new day-break seemed born, The tumult is silenced; the death-lots are cast, Do Yes-the broad road to honor is red where ye passed,. And of glory ye asked-but a grave! Ex. CCI.-A THANKSGIVING HYMN. PARK BENJAMIN. Oн, God of Battles! by whose hand, Are led the armies of our land To be triumphant in the fight; Which now in shadow veils the sky Would never yield to morning light, Bend down, and hear thy people's cry. Bend from thy heaven of heavens, and see Thy righteous anger we deplore; Oh, look upon their hapless state And be our sure defence once more. Be thou, who wast our father's God, Our own reliance, strength and stay; And let the sacred path they trod Still be their children's chosen way, Illumined by that glorious ray Oh thou, whose smiling face appears At last, behind war's awful frown; Like rain in Summer falling down, And thine be all the vast renown, Ex. CCII.-I HAVE A COUNTRY. "I have a country," cried a boy, starting up. "My father is fighting for it, and my brother has died for it." I HAVE a country! who with coward tongue And treacherous heart has said it is not so? I have a country, and her flag is flung, Starry and bright on all the winds that blow. I have a country! From the shores of Maine, To me alike, the sturdy northern pines Which toss their branches in the winds forlorn, I have a country, for the brave have died Mine, North and South, and mine from sea to sea. And 'neath her banner still the battles rage, And armies wrestle in the cannon's breath; |