24

The blood of the Saxon flows
In the veins of men who cry, -
"Give ear, give ear unto those
Who pine for their native sky!
We call on our motherland

For a home in Freedom's hall,
While stretching forth the hand,
Oh, build no dividing wall!

"The Mexican vaunteth no more;

-

In strife we have tamed his pride;
The coward raps not at your door,
Speak out! shall it open wide ?
Oh, the wish of our hearts is strong,
That the star of Jacinto's fight
Have place in the flashing throng
That spangle your banner bright.”

William Henry Cuyler Hosmer.

AMONG THE MOUNTAINS IN GEORGIA.

YE glorious Alleghanies! from this height

I see your peaks on every side arise;
Their summits roll beneath the giddy sight,
Like ocean billows heaved among the skies.
In wild magnificence upon them lies
The primal forest, kindling in the glow

Of this mild autumn sun with golden dyes, While, in his slanting ray, their shadows grow Broad o'er the paradise of vale and wood below.

How beautiful! though, fresh from Nature's God,
They show no footstep of an elder race;
No human hand has ever turned their sod,

Or heaved their massive granite from its place: The green banks of their floods bear not a trace Of pomp and power, which have come and gone, And left their crumbling ruins to deface

The blood of the Saxon flows

In the veins of men who ery, "Give ear, give ear unto those

Who pine for their native sky!
We call on our motherland

For a home in Freedom's hall, —
While stretching forth the hand,
Oh, build no dividing wall!

"The Mexican vaunteth no more;

In strife we have tamed his pride;
The coward raps not at your door,
Speak out! shall it open wide?
Oh he wish of our hearts is strong,
the star of Jacinto's fight

ace in the flashing throne
spangle your banner

Towing

bivouacs

night falls

Alleghany Mount from the town.

and the tents are

undisturbed array,

knows no music save ch and a volley o'er the

ogether strove, with all of life

slumber that no bugle-call can

ver break their ranks, no blast their thin,

eserter leave the corps their grim Chief sters in.

twines its garlands o'er their heads, but they over cull its flowers,

ul winter evenings bring to them no happy

The virgin earth.

Here Nature rules alone; The beauty of the hill and valley is her own.

Nor might the future generations know

Aught of the simple people, who have made Their habitations by the streams that flow

So fresh and stainless from the forest shade; Who built their council fires on hill and glade, And in yon pleasant valleys, by the fall

Of crystal founts, perchance, their dead have laid, But for the names of mountain, river, cataract,—all Significant of thought, and sweetly musical.

--

Henry R. Jackson.

THE

Arlington, Va.

ARLINGTON.

HE tents that whitened Arlington have vanished from the fields,

And plenty where the cannon stood a golden harvest

yields ;

The campfires gleam no more at night, and pleasant mornings come,

Without the blare of bugles or the beating of the drum.

The rushes by the riverside thrill with the reed-birds'

song,

And bend to kiss the ripples as the waters flow along;