Bugle-echoes: A Collection of the Poetry of the Civil War, Northern and Southern

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Francis Fisher Browne
White, Stokes, & Allen, 1886 - 336 Seiten
 

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Seite 287 - WHEN lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd, And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night, I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
Seite 66 - Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on.
Seite 124 - UP from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep, Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde...
Seite 292 - For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is...
Seite 290 - I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them, I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war...
Seite 126 - But spare your country's flag," she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame Over the face of the leader came; The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word : "Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!
Seite 242 - UP from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away.
Seite 125 - Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall, When Lee marched over the mountain wall; Over the mountains, winding down, Horse and foot into Frederick town. Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind; the sun Of noon looked down and saw not one.
Seite 327 - BY the flow of the inland river. Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead ; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day ; Under the one, the Blue ; Under the other, the Gray.
Seite 24 - Hark to an exiled son's appeal, Maryland ! My Mother State, to thee I kneel, Maryland ! For life and death, for woe and weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland, my Maryland! Thou wilt not cower in the dust...

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