The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1867-09-18

Artillery sowed the field
With shot and shell, that make it still
An iron harvest yield.
Mid showers of grape and canister,
Along our lines of blue
The soul of Seventy-six struck with
The arm of Sixty-two.
Beneath our flag the Lord of Hosts
Fought on this reeSing sod;
For traitors to their country
Are traitors to their God
In Freedoms holy brotherhood
The Saxon and the Gaul,
Shoulder to shoulder, as they fell,
Shared Glory's crimson pail.
The Pennsylvania husbandman
And Western mOuntaiDeer
Across the swarthy raider lay,
With empty musket, here.
Here fell the dauntless Mansfield,
Whose streaming locks of snow
Could never for moment chill
The fiery heart below;
And yonder bridge, that Burnside
So galantly did hold,
Is now as classic as the Pass
The Spartans held of old.
Young Rodman, as he PROSTATE lay,
Still waved his flag ON high,
And family, with his dying breath,
Sent up battle-cry.
Well might Duryea as true knight
AS ever couChed a lance,
Smile grimly to behold his zouaves,
With springing step, advance;
And in their onset Meagher's brigade
of Erin's hardy sons,
Paused not till they were looking down
The muzzles OF the guns.
The burly form Of Hooker,
Tossed on the surgng flood
Till he had shown riheman
The color of his blood;
While Sumner Meade and Sedgwick,
Like old campaigners made
Raw striplings breast like regulars
The CALLING cannonade.
Historic Maryland such deeds
Have made, with brilliant gleam,
A Marathon of every plain,
A Nile of every stream.
And neyermOre would Europe boast
OF her scared grenadiers
Could she have seen the work that day
Done by our volunteers.
Four times yon wood was won and lost,
Where lay the foe intrenched;
And to its staff our banner chung,
In scarlet rain bedrenched;
When onward swept the brawny troops,
That never charged in vain
Our lion-souled Green Mountain boys,
And lumbermen OF Maine!
And from their masked intrenchments
The veteran ranks within,
Were hurled as If each bayonet,
thunder-bolt had been.
All! sweetly by the planters porch
The orange-tree will rise,
But nevermoTe its snowy bloom
viii cheer his wistful eyes.
For many year to come his blood,
That blade oi bullet drew,
Will make thy roses, Maryland,
Spring with a redder hue.
Thin grew the host that fought beneath
The fallen stars and then
Like gray wolves backward, inch by inch,
Retreating to their den
Unto the cover of their works
The bafiled horde Withdrew
And soon, upon the dust OF strife,
The evening sprinkled dew.
Then martial strains rose from our camp,
And as the wounded listened
The nerveless hand was clenched again,
Again the glazed eye glistened.
Some thought of dear ones, who, afar,
Would name from the pillow,
Or madens who that night would sit
Alone beneath the willow.
Some thought of stately marble halls
That in the city lowered,
And others of an humble cot
Amid the vines embowered.
Yet wheresoe'r the thoughts were turned,
AS memory's magnet drew them,
The spot was hallowed by the name
OF "Home sweet home," unto them,
But when the morn in beauty broke,
Those heroes, who had striven
So noby for their homes, had found
A better home in Heaven.
Then softer grew the hard brown hand,
AS, with a woman's care,
Rough soldiers gently bore away
Their fellow comrades there;
And when the last long trench had closed
Above unnumbered slain,
All grades forgOt-an army lay
Encamped beneath this plain!
YesI in dark barracks underneath
Rest those who chose the cypress wreath,
In service brief as glorious gained,
To laurels with dishonor stained.
Rest, till with those who bivouac still,
At Marathon and Bunker's Hill.
BY louder trumps than battle drew
They're marshaled for the last review!
No more the pulse that beats 80 true,
win quicken as the loud tattoo
Ascends at sunrise from the camp,
Or sternly beat the measured tramp;
But hands unseen will hither bring
The earliest yiolets of the spring;
And pilgrims who have viewed with awe
Ihe ruins Of that haunted shore,
Where shrouds of lava oyerspread
Inc silent cities of the dead,
And every step brings through the gloom
An echo from storied tomb
No longer DER the deep will roam
To leave holier shrine at homei
For every clod we tread to-day
Is nodded irom some heros CLAW
And looking downward from the skies
Perchance the melancholy ewes
OF Lincoln wear a tenderer glow.
AS on this scene he gazes now,
| feel eodlike presence near
The Great Emancipator's here9
o, Death where is thy stingl O Grave,
Where is thy victory DER the brave?
Not with dim sight and tOtterinp frame
They sought the dust from which they came
With eye whose flash seemed Of the storm.
And war embodied In each form,
They marched at glory's clarion call
To graves as to banquet hall,
And though sweet voices filled each wind
From home, cast not one look behind,