Dirge for a Soldier.

'LOSE his eyes; his work is done!

CLO

What to him is friend or foeman,

Rise of moon, or set of sun,

Hand of man, or kiss of woman?

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? He cannot know;
Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight,
Proved his truth by his endeavor;

Let him sleep in solemn night,
Sleep forever and forever.

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? He cannot know;
Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars,

Roll the drum and fire the volley!

What to him are all our wars,
What but death bemocking folly?

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER.

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? He cannot know;
Lay him low!

Leave him to God's watching eye;

Trust him to the hand that made him.

Mortal love weeps idly by;

God alone has power to aid him.

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? He cannot know!

Lay him low!

G. H. BOKER.

Battle-hymn of the Republic.

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 fatal lightning of His terrible swift sword:

His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;

I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:

His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:

"As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My grace shall deal;

Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with His heel!

Since God is marching on."

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;

He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat;

Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!

Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born, across the sea,

With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and

me:

As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,

While God is marching on.

J. W. HOWE.

Farragut.

FARRAGUT, Farragut,

Old Heart of Oak,

Daring Dave Farragut,

Thunderbolt stroke,

Watches the hoary mist
Lift from the bay,
Till his flag, glory-kissed,
Greets the young day.

Far, by gray Morgan's walls, Looms the black fleet. Hark, deck to rampart calls With the drums' beat! Buoy your chains overboard, While the steam hums; Men! to the battlement, Farragut comes.

See, as the hurricane

Hurtles in wrath

Squadrons of clouds amain
Back from its path!