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“It doesn't foller thet he can

swaller Prescriptions signed 'J. B.' Put up by you an' me!”

We own the ocean, tu, John:

You mus'n' take it hard,
Ef we can't think with you, John,
It's jest your own back-yard.

Ole Uncle S. sez le. "I guess,
Ef thet's his claim," sez he,
“ The fencin'-stutt'll cost enough
To bust up friend J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!”

We know we've gut a cause, John,

Thet's honest, just, an' true;
We thought 'twould win applause,

John,
Ef nowheres else, from you.

Ole Uncle S. sez le, “I guess
His love of right,” sez he,
“Hangs by a rotien fibre o'cotton:
There's natur in J. B.,

Ez wal ez you an' me!”
The South says, “ Poor folks down!

John, An' All men up!" say we, – White, yaller, black, an' brown, John: Now which is your idee? Ole Uncle S. sez he,

I guess,
John preaches wal," sez he:
But, sermon thru, an' come to

du,
Why, there's the ole J. B.
A-crowdin' you an' me!”

Why talk so dreslle big, John,

Of honor, when it meant
You didn't care a fig, Jolin,
But jest for ten per cent ?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
He's like the rest,” sez he:
“When all is done, it's number

one

Thet's nearest to J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!”

We give the critters back, John,

Coz Abra'm thought 'twas right; It warn’t your bullyin' clach, John, Provokin' us to fight.

Ole Uncle S. sez le, “I guess
We've a hard row,

sez he,
“ To hoe just now: but thet,

somehow,
May happen to J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!”

Shall it be love or hate, John?

It's you thet's to decide:
Ain't your bonds held by Fate, Jolin,
Like all the world's beside?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
Wise men forgive," sez he,
• But not forget; and sometime

yet
The truth may strike J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!”

We ain't so weak an' poor, John,

With twenty million people,
An' close to every door, Jolm,
A school-house an' a steeple.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
It is a fact," sez lie,
“ The surest plan to make a Man
Is, Think him so, J. B.,
Ez much ez you or me!”

God means to make this land, John,

Clear thru, from sea to sea,
Believe an' understand, Jolin,
The uuth o' bein free.

Ole Uncie S, sez he, “I guess,
God's price is high," sez he:
“ But nothin' else than wut he

sells
Wears long, an' thet J. B.

May larn like you an' me!"
J. R. LOWELL: Mason and Slidell,

THE FLAG.

Our folks believe in Law, John:

An' it's for her sake, now, They've left the axe an’ saw, John, The anvil an' the ploughi.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
Ef't warn't for law,” sez he,
“There'd be one shindy from

here to Indy;
An' thet don't suit J. B.,
(When 'tain't 'twixt you an’

me!")

THERE'S a flag hangs over my

threshold, whose folds are

more dear to me Than the blood that thrills in my

bosom its earnest of liberty; And dear are the stars it harbors in

its sunny field of blue As the hope of a further heaven that

lights all our dim lives through.

Take down now your flaunting ban

ner, for a scout comes breath

Jess and pale, With the terror of death upon him;

of failure is all his tale: “ They have fled while the flag

waved o’er them! they have

turned to the foe their back! They are scattered, pursued, and

slanghtered! the fields are all rout and wrack!"

Pass hence, then, the friends I gath

erell, a goodly company! All ye that have manhood in you,

go, perish for Liberty! But I and the babes God gave

me will wait with uplifted

hearts, With the firin smile ready to kindle,

and the will to perform our parts.

But now should my guests be merry,

the house is in holiday guise, Looking out, through its biurnished

windows like a score of wel

coming eyes. Come hither, my brothers who wan

der in saintliness and in sin! Come hither, ye pilgrims of Nature!

my heart doth invite you in. My wine is not of the choicest, yet

bears it an honest, brand; And the bread that I bid you lighten

I break with no sparing hand; But pause, ere you pass to taste it,

one aet must accomplished be: Salute the flag in its virtue, before

ye sit down with me. The flag of our stately battles, not

struggles of wrath and green: Its stripes were a holy lesson, its

spangles a deathless creed; 'Twas red with the blood of free

men, and white with the fear

of the foe, And the stars that fight in their

courses 'gainst tyrants its

symbols know. Come hither, thou son of my moth

er! we were reared in the

selfsame arms; Thou hast many a pleasant gesture,

thy mind hath its gifts and

charms, But my heart is as stern to question

as mine eyes are of sorrows

full: Salute the flag in its virtue, or pass

on where others rule. Thou lord of a thousand acres, with

heaps of uncommteil goll, The steeds of thy stall are laughty,

thy lackeys eunning and boll: I envy no jot of thy splendor, I rail

at thy follies none: Salute the flag in its virtue, or leave

my poor house alone. Fair lady with silken trappings, high

waving thy stainless plume, We welcome thee to our numbers, a

flower of costliest bloom: Let a hundred maids live widowed

to furnish thy bridal bed; But pause where the flag doth ques

tion, and bend thy triumphant head.

When the last true heart lies blood

less, when the fierce and the

false have won, I'll press in turn to my bosom each

daughter and either son; Bid them loose the flag from its

bearings, and we'll lay us

down to rest With the glory of home about us,

and its freedom locked in our breast.

JULIA WARD IIOWE.

THE WASHERS OF THE

SHROUD.

ALONG a river-side, I know not

where, I walked one night in mystery of

dream; A chill creeps curdling yet beneath

my hair, To think what chanced me by the pal

lid gleam Of a moor-wraith that waned through

haunted air.

Pale fire-flies pulsed within the mead

ownist Their halos, wavering thistle-downs

of light; The loon, that seemed to mock some

gobliu tryst,

Laughed; and the echoes, huddling

in affright, Like Odin's hounds, fled baying

down the night.

Then all was silent, till there smote

my ear A movement in the stream that

checked my breath: Was it the slow plash of a wading

deer? But something said, “This water is

of Death! The Sisters wash a Shroud, -ill

thing to hear!”

“What make we, murmur'st thou,

and what are we? When empires must be wound, we

bring the shroud, The time-old web of the implacable

Three: Is it too coarse for him, the young

and proud ? Earth's mightiest deigned to wear

it; why not he?" “Is there no hope?” I moaned.

"So strong, so fair! Our Fowler, whose proud bird would

brook erewhile No rival's swoop in all our western

air! Gather the ravens, then, in funeral file For him, life's morn-gold bright yet

in his hair! “Leave me not hopeless, ye unpity

ing dames! I see, half seeing. Tell me, ye who

scanned The stars, Earth's elders, still must

noblest aims Be traced upon oblivious ocean

sands? Must Hesper join the wailing ghosts

of names???

I, looking then, beheld the ancient

Three, Known to the Greek's and to the

Norseman's creed, That sit in shadow of the mystic

Tree, Still crooning, as they weave their

endless brede, One song: “Time was, Time is, and

Time shall be."

ever

No wrinkled crones were they, as I

had deemed, But fair as yesterday, to-day, to-mor

row, To

mowner, lover, poet,

seemed: Something too high for joy, too deep

for sorrow, Thrilled in their tones, and from

their faces gleamed. “ Still men and nations reap as they

have strawn;" So sang they, working at their task

the while; " The fatal raiment must be cleansed

ere dawn; For Austria ? Italy? the Sea-Queen's

Isle? O’er what quenched grandeur must

our shroud be drawn?

“When grass-blades stiffen with red

battle-dew, Ye deem we choose the victor and

the slain : Say, choose we them that shall be

leal and true To the heart's longing, the high

faith of brain ? Yet there the victory lies, if ye but

knew.

* Three roots bear up dominion:

Knowledge, Will; These twain are strong, but stronger

yet the third Obedience, 'tis the great tap-root,

that still, Knit round the rock of Duty, is not

stirred, Though Heaven - loosed tempests

spend their utmost skill.

“Or is it for a younger, fairer

corse, That gathered States for children

round his knees, That tamed the wave to be his post

ing-horse, Feller of forests, linker of the seas, Bridge-builder, hammerer, youngest

son of Thor's?

“Is the doom sealed for Hesper?

'Tis not we Denounce it, but the Law before all

time:

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The alarum of drums swept past,

Or a bugle blast
From the camp on the shore.

Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of Snow-white

smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of

our foes Was steadily steering its course

To try the force Of our ribs of oak.

Ho! brave hearts that went down in

the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled

stream. Ho! brave land! with hearts like

these,
Thy flag, that is rent in twain,

Shall be one again,
And without a seam!

LONGFELLOW.

SUNTHIN IN A PASTORAL

LINE.

Down upon us heavily runs,

Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from

her guns,
And leaps the terrible death,

With fiery breath,
From each open port.

We are not idle, but send her

straight Defiance back in a full broadside! As hail rebounds from a roof of

slate,
Rebounds our heavier hail

From each iron scale
Of the monster's hide.

ONCE git a smell o' musk into a

draw, An' it clings hold like precerdents in

law : Your gra’ma'am put it there,

when, goodness knows, – To jes? this-worldify her Sunday:

clo'es; But the old chist wun't sarre her

gran'son's wife, (For, 'thout new funnitoor, wut

good in life?) An' so ole clawfoot, from the pre

cinks dread O’ the spare chamber, slinks into

the shed, Where, dim with dust, it fust or last

subsides To holdin' seeds, an' fifty things be

sides; But better days stick fast in heart

an' husk, An' all you keep in't gits a scent o'

musk.

“Strike your flag!” the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation

strain. Never!” our gallant Morris re

plies: “It is better to sink than to

yield!" And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men.

Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron

grasp! Down went the Cumberland all a

wrack, Wita sudden shudder of death,

And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp.

Jes' so with poets: wut they've

airly read Gits kind o' worked into their heart

an' head, So's't they can't seem to write but

jest on sheers With furrin countries or played-out

ideers, Nor hev a feelin', ef it doosn't

smack ()' wut some critter chose to feel

'way back: This makes 'em talk o' daises, larks,

an' things, Ez though we'll nothin' here that

blows an' sings, (Wliy, I'll give more for one live

boboliuk

Next inorn, as the sun rose over the

bay, Still floated our flag at the main

mast-head. Lord, how beautiful was thy day!

Every waft of the air

Was a whisper of prayer,
Or a dirge for the dead.

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