The American Union Speaker

by John D. Philbrick

The grand old earth shakes at the tread of the Norsemen,
Who meet, as of old, in defence of the true;
All hail to the stars that are set in their banner!
All hail to the red, and the white, and the blue!
As each column wheels by,
Hear their hearts' battle-cry,—
It was Warren's,—'Tis sweet for our country to die!

Lancaster and Coös, Laconia and Concord,
Old Portsmouth and Keene, send their stalwart young men;
They come from the plough, and the loom, and the anvil,
From the marge of the sea, from the hill-top and glen.
As each column wheels by,
Hear their hearts' battle-cry,—
It was Warren's,—'Tis sweet for our country to die!

The prayers of fair women, like legions of angels,
Watch over our soldiers by day and by night;
And the King of all glory, the Chief of all armies,
Shall love them and lead them who dare to do right!
As each column wheels by,
Hear their hearts' battle-cry,—
'T was Warren's,—'Tis sweet for our country to die!
T. B. Aldrich.

CCXXXIV.

THE CALVARY CHARGE.

With bray of the trumpet
And roll of the drum,
And keen ring of bugle,
The cavalry come.
Sharp clank the steel scabbards,
The bridle-chains ring,
And foam from red nostrils
The wild chargers fling.

Tramp! tramp! o'er the greensward
That quivers below,
Scarce held by the curb-bit
The fierce horses go!
And the grim-visaged colonel,
With ear-rending shout,
Peals forth to the squadrons
The order—"Trot out!"

One hand on the sabre,
And one on the rein,
The troopers move forward
In line on the plain.
As rings the word "Gallop!"
The steel scabbards clank,
And each rowel is pressed
To a horse's hot flank:
And swift is their rush
As the wild torrent's flow,
When it pours from the crag
On the valley below.

"Charge!" thunders the leader:
Like shaft from the bow
Each mad horse is hurled
On the wavering foe.
A thousand bright sabres
Are gleaming in air;
A thousand dark horses
Are dashed on the square.

Resistless and reckless
Of aught may betide,
Like demons, not mortals,
The wild troopers ride.
Cut right! and cut left!—
For the parry who needs?
The bayonets shiver
Like wind-shattered reeds.
Vain—vain the red volley
That bursts from the square,—
The random-shot bullets
Are wasted in air.