The reveille has sounded; ’twill never sound again! For days, in martial splendor, three hundred thousand men. From Vicksburg and from Shiloh, Antietam and the sea. From Shenandoah’s Valley and Gettysburg’s green lea.—
Those cannoneers of Ruin, that hurricane of horse, With Pestilence behind them, and Carnage in their course; Those, those—when Pickett’s cohorts were charging wave on wave,— That stood like granite ledges, the bravest of the brave;
With drums, with banners flying, with triumph in each eye, The grand review are marching. He sees them passing by As saw in dream. Napoleon, from that triumphal arch, That night in phantom phalanx his splendid heroes march.
’Twas like a shield all gory, that sun of Austerlitz! No bloody, ghostly phantom before our hero flits! Ye idols of the people, who lead an army well, Shall wield a nation’s sceptre, in capitols shall dwell!
Past ages grim and hoary their victors loved to crown: The flaming sword of conquest still wins sublime renown. All echo and re-echo the glories of the brave; All, all, a grateful country! bedew the soldier’s grave. C. G. Fall.
OVER THE LEFT.
Their deposits were left over night in the bank,— In a bank without whisper of fault: The amounts to their credit were placed on the books, And were left over night in the vault.
To their credit, I say it, the bank was locked tight, Guarding thus against fire and theft; A patrol on the walk, and a new ’lectric light, Throwing beams to the right and the left.