I. RECONSTRUCTION AND AFTER…

I. RECONSTRUCTION AND AFTER

The war was over, but three great questions remained to be settled. How were the people of the South to be regarded? How was the Union to be reconstructed? What was to be done with the three millions of negroes who had been given their freedom? These were the questions which came before the Thirty-Ninth Congress.

TO THE THIRTY-NINTH CONGRESS

O people-chosen! are ye not Likewise the chosen of the Lord, To do His will and speak His word?

From the loud thunder-storm of war Not man alone hath called ye forth, But He, the God of all the earth!

The torch of vengeance in your hands He quenches; unto Him belongs The solemn recompense of wrongs.

Enough of blood the land has seen, And not by cell or gallows-stair Shall ye the way of God prepare.

Say to the pardon-seekers: Keep Your manhood, bend no suppliant knees, Nor palter with unworthy pleas.

Above your voices sounds the wail Of starving men; we shut in vain Our eyes to Pillow's ghastly stain.

What words can drown that bitter cry? What tears wash out the stain of death? What oaths confirm your broken faith?

From you alone the guaranty Of union, freedom, peace, we claim; We urge no conqueror's terms of shame.

Alas! no victor's pride is ours; We bend above our triumphs won Like David o'er his rebel son.

Be men, not beggars. Cancel all By one brave, generous action: trust Your better instincts, and be just!

Make all men peers before the law, Take hands from off the negro's throat, Give black and white an equal vote.

Keep all your forfeit lives and lands, But give the common law's redress To labor's utter nakedness.

Revive the old heroic will; Be in the right as brave and strong As ye have proved yourselves in wrong.

Defeat shall then be victory, Your loss the wealth of full amends, And hate be love, and foes be friends.

Then buried be the dreadful past, Its common slain be mourned, and let All memories soften to regret.

Then shall the Union's mother-heart Her lost and wandering ones recall, Forgiving and restoring all,--

And Freedom break her marble trance Above the Capitolian dome, Stretch hands, and bid ye welcome home!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Few men could have been worse fitted for the delicate task of reconstruction than Andrew Johnson. But even his policy, narrow as it was, was not narrow enough to suit the radical Republicans in Congress.

"MR. JOHNSON'S POLICY OF RECONSTRUCTION"

SOME COMMENT FROM THE BOYS IN BLUE

"His policy," do you say? By heaven, who says so lies in his throat! 'Twas our policy, boys, from our muster-day, Through skirmish and bivouac, march and fray-- "His policy," do you say?

"His policy"--do but note! 'Tis a pitiful falsehood for you to say. Did he bid all the stars in our banner float? Was it he shouted Union from every throat Through the long war's weary day?

"His policy"--how does it hap? Has the old word "Union" no meaning, pray? What meant the "U. S." upon every cap-- Upon every button, belt, and strap? 'Twas our policy all the way.

"His policy?" That may do For a silly and empty political brag; But 'twas held by every Boy in Blue When he lifted his right hand, stanch and true, And swore to sustain the flag.

We are with him none the less-- He works for the same great end we sought; We feel for the South in its deep distress, And to get the old Union restored we press-- 'Twas for this we enlisted and fought.

Be it his or whose it may, 'Tis the policy, boys, that we avow; There were noble hearts in the ranks of gray As they proved on many a bloody day, And we would not oppress them now.

"Let us all forgive and forget:" It was thus Grant spoke to General Lee, When, with wounds still raw and bayonets wet, The chiefs of the two great armies met Beneath the old apple-tree.

CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE.

The leader of this coterie was Thaddeus Stevens. He declared the South was in a state of anarchy, demanded that it be placed under military rule and that suffrage be extended to the negroes. In February, 1868, he introduced a resolution that "Andrew Johnson, President of the United States, be impeached of high crimes and misdemeanors in office," but at the trial which followed the proceedings were shown to have been actuated by partisan bitterness and the President was acquitted. The verdict was a heavy blow to Stevens. He had burned himself out and died in August.

THADDEUS STEVENS

DIED AUG. 11, 1868

An eye with the piercing eagle's fire, Not the look of the gentle dove; Not his the form that men admire, Nor the face that tender women love.

Working first for his daily bread With the humblest toilers of the earth; Never walking with free, proud tread-- Crippled and halting from his birth.

Wearing outside a thorny suit Of sharp, sarcastic, stinging power; Sweet at the core as sweetest fruit, Or inmost heart of fragrant flower.

Fierce and trenchant, the haughty foe Felt his words like a sword of flame; But to the humble, poor, and low Soft as a woman's his accents came.

Not his the closest, tenderest friend-- No children blessed his lonely way; But down in his heart until the end The tender dream of his boyhood lay.

His mother's faith he held not fast; But he loved her living, mourned her dead, And he kept her memory to the last As green as the sod above her bed.

He held as sacred in his home Whatever things she wrought or planned, And never suffered change to come To the work of her "industrious hand."

For her who pillowed first his head He heaped with a wealth of flowers the grave, While he chose to sleep in an unmarked bed, By his Master's humblest poor--the slave!

Suppose he swerved from the straightest course-- That the things he should not do he did-- That he hid from the eyes of mortals, close, Such sins as you and I have hid?

Or suppose him worse than you; what then? Judge not, lest you be judged for sin! One said who knew the hearts of men: Who loveth much shall a pardon win.

The Prince of Glory for sinners bled; His soul was bought with a royal price; And his beautified feet on flowers may tread To-day with his Lord in Paradise.

PHOEBE CARY.

The South's condition meanwhile was pitiful indeed. Negroes, led by "carpet-baggers" from the North, secured the ascendancy in state government. Millions of dollars were wasted or stolen, and it looked for a time as though a great section of the country was doomed to negro domination.

SOUTH CAROLINA TO THE STATES OF THE NORTH

ESPECIALLY TO THOSE THAT FORMED A PART OF THE ORIGINAL THIRTEEN

I lift these hands with iron fetters banded: Beneath the scornful sunlight and cold stars I rear my once imperial forehead branded By alien shame's immedicable scars; Like some pale captive, shunned by all the nations, I crouch unpitied, quivering and apart-- Laden with countless woes and desolations, The life-blood freezing round a broken heart!

About my feet, splashed red with blood of slaughters, My children gathering in wild, mournful throngs, Despairing sons, frail infants, stricken daughters, Rehearse the awful burden of their wrongs; Vain is their cry, and worse than vain their pleading: I turn from stormy breasts, from yearning eyes, To mark where Freedom's outraged form receding, Wanes in chill shadow down the midnight skies!

I wooed her once in wild tempestuous places, The purple vintage of my soul outpoured, To win and keep her unrestrained embraces, What time the olive-crown o'ertopped the sword; Oh! northmen, with your gallant heroes blending, Mine, in old years, for this sweet goddess died; But now--ah! shame, all other shame transcending! Your pitiless hands have torn her from my side.

_What! 'tis a tyrant-party's treacherous action-- Your hand is clean, your conscience clear, ye sigh_; Ay! but ere now your sires had throttled faction, Or, pealed o'er half the world their battle-cry; Its voice outrung from solemn mountain-passes Swept by wild storm-winds of the Atlantic strand, To where the swart Sierras' sullen grasses Droop in low languors of the sunset-land!

Never, since earthly States began their story, Hath any suffered, bided, borne like me: At last, recalling all mine ancient glory, I vowed my fettered Commonwealth to free: Even at the thought, beside the prostrate column Of chartered rights, which blasted lay and dim-- Uprose my noblest son with purpose solemn, While, host on host, his brethren followed him:

Wrong, grasped by truth, arraigned by law (whose sober Majestic mandates rule o'er change and time)-- Smit by the ballot, like some flushed October, Reeled in the Autumn rankness of his crime; Struck, tortured, pierced--but not a blow returning. The steadfast phalanx of my honored braves Planted their bloodless flag where sunrise burning, Flashed a new splendor o'er our martyrs' graves!

What then? Oh, sister States! what welcome omen Of love and concord crossed our brightening blue, The foes we vanquished, are they not your foemen, Our laws upheld, your sacred safeguards, too? Yet scarce had victory crowned our grand endeavor, And peace crept out from shadowy glooms remote-- Than--as if bared to blast all hope forever, Your tyrant's sword shone glittering at my throat!

Once more my bursting chains were reunited, Once more barbarian plaudits wildly rung O'er the last promise of deliverance blighted, The prostrate purpose and the palsied tongue: Ah! faithless sisters, 'neath my swift undoing, Peers the black presage of your wrath to come; Above your heads are signal clouds of ruin, Whose lightnings flash, whose thunders are not dumb!

There towers a judgment-seat beyond our seeing; There lives a Judge, whom none can bribe or blind; Before whose dread decree, your spirit fleeing, May reap the whirlwind, having sown the wind: I, in that day of justice, fierce and torrid, When blood--your blood--outpours like poisoned wine, _Pointing to these chained limbs, this blasted forehead, May mock your ruin, as ye mocked at mine_!

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

But the white people of the South rallied at last, asserted their supremacy, and seized the reins of government. The famous Ku-Klux Klan was organized and spread terror among the negroes, by its sure and swift administration of punishment--just and unjust.

KU-KLUX

We have sent him seeds of the melon's core, And nailed a warning upon his door; By the Ku-Klux laws we can do no more.

Down in the hollow, 'mid crib and stack, The roof of his low-porched house looms black, Not a line of light at the doorsill's crack.

Yet arm and mount! and mask and ride! The hounds can sense though the fox may hide! And for a word too much men oft have died.

The clouds blow heavy towards the moon. The edge of the storm will reach it soon. The killdee cries and the lonesome loon.

The clouds shall flush with a wilder glare Than the lightning makes with his angled flare, When the Ku-Klux verdict is given there.

In the pause of the thunder rolling low, A rifle's answer--who shall know From the wind's fierce hurl and the rain's black blow?

Only the signature written grim At the end of the message brought to him,-- A hempen rope and a twisted limb.

So arm and mount! and mask and ride! The hounds can sense though the fox may hide! And for a word too much men oft have died.

MADISON CAWEIN.

The North kept its hands off and permitted the South to work out its own destiny--which it did blindly and blunderingly enough. Yet bravely, too; for it had only ashes to build from. But from the ashes a new land arose, and a better one.

THE REAR GUARD

The guns are hushed. On every field once flowing With war's red flood May's breath of peace is shed, And, spring's young grass and gracious flowers are growing Above the dead.

Ye gray old men whom we this day are greeting, Honor to you, honor and love and trust! Brave to the brave. Your soldier hands are meeting Across their dust.

Bravely they fought who charged when flags were flying In cannon's crash, in screech and scream of shell; Bravely they fell, who lay alone and dying In battle's hell.

Honor to them! Far graves to-day are flinging Up through the soil peace-blooms to meet the sun, And daisied heads to summer winds are singing Their long "well done."

Our vanguard, they. They went with hot blood flushing At battle's din, at joy of bugle's call. They fell with smiles, the flood of young life gushing, Full brave the fall!

But braver ye who, when the war was ended, And bugle's call and wave of flag were done, Could come back home, so long left undefended. Your cause unwon,

And twist the useless sword to hook of reaping, Rebuild the homes, set back the empty chair And brave a land where waste and want were keeping Guard everywhere.

All this you did, your courage strong upon you, And out of ashes, wreck, a new land rose, Through years of war no braver battle won you, 'Gainst fiercer foes.

And now to-day a prospered land is cheering And lifting up her voice in lusty pride For you gray men, who fought and wrought, not fearing Battle's red tide.

Our rear guard, ye whose step is slowing, slowing, Whose ranks, earth-thinned, are filling otherwhere, Who wore the gray--the gray, alas! still showing On bleaching hair.

For forty years you've watched this land grow stronger, For forty years you've been its bulwark, stay; Tarry awhile; pause yet a little longer Upon the way.

And set our feet where there may be no turning, And set our faces straight on duty's track, Where there may be for stray, strange goods no yearning Nor looking back.

And when for you the last tattoo has sounded, And on death's silent field you've pitched your tent, When, bowed through tears, the arc of life has rounded To full content,

We that are left will count it guerdon royal, Our heritage no years can take away, That we were born of those, unflinching, loyal, Who wore the gray.

IRENE FOWLER BROWN.

The bitterness which the great struggle had engendered gradually gave place to a kindlier feeling. As early as 1867, the women of Columbus, Miss., decorated alike the graves of Confederate and Union soldiers, an action which was the first of many such.

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY

[1867]

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.

These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the laurel, the Blue, Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers Alike for the friend and the foe: Under the sod and the dew Waiting the judgment-day; Under the roses, the Blue, Under the lilies, the Gray.

So with an equal splendor, The morning sun-rays fall, With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Broidered with gold, the Blue, Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Wet with the rain, the Blue, Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done, In the storm of the years that are fading No braver battle was won: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the blossoms, the Blue, Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead! Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray.

FRANCIS MILES FINCH.

When the South was swept by yellow fever a few years later, the North rushed to its relief in a way which showed how completely old animosities had been forgotten.

THE STRICKEN SOUTH TO THE NORTH

When ruthful time the South's memorial places-- Her heroes' graves--had wreathed in grass and flowers; When Peace ethereal, crowned by all her graces, Returned to make more bright the summer hours; When doubtful hearts revived, and hopes grew stronger; When old sore-cankering wounds that pierced and stung, Throbbed with their first, mad, feverous pain no longer, While the fair future spake with flattering tongue; When once, once more she felt her pulses beating To rhythms of healthful joy and brave desire; Lo! round her doomed horizon darkly meeting, A pall of blood-red vapors veined with fire!

Oh! ghastly portent of fast-coming sorrows! Of doom that blasts the blood and blights the breath, Robs youth and manhood of all golden morrows-- And life's clear goblet brims with wine of death!-- Oh! swift fulfilment of this portent dreary! Oh! nightmare rule of ruin, racked by fears, Heartbroken wail, and solemn miserere, Imperious anguish, and soul-melting tears! Oh! faith, thrust downward from celestial splendors, Oh! love grief-bound, with palely-murmurous mouth! Oh! agonized by life's supreme surrenders-- Behold her now--the scourged and suffering South!

No balm in Gilead? nay, but while her forehead, Pallid and drooping, lies in foulest dust, There steals across the desolate spaces torrid, A voice of manful cheer and heavenly trust, A hand redeeming breaks the frozen starkness Of palsied nerve, and dull, despondent brain; Rolls back the curtain of malignant darkness, And shows the eternal blue of heaven again-- Revealing there, o'er worlds convulsed and shaken, That face whose mystic tenderness enticed To hope new-born earth's lost bereaved, forsaken! Ah! still beyond the tempest smiles the Christ!

Whose voice? Whose hand? Oh, thanks divinest Master, Thanks for those grand emotions which impart Grace to the North to feel the South's disaster, The South to bow with touched and cordial heart! Now, now at last the links which war had broken Are welded fast, at mercy's charmed commands; Now, now at last the magic words are spoken Which blend in one two long-divided lands! O North! you came with warrior strife and clangor; You left our South one gory burial ground; But love, more potent than your haughtiest anger, Subdues the souls which hate could only wound!

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

On July 29, 1866, the first submarine cable was completed between Ireland and Newfoundland, the enterprise having been undertaken and carried through by Cyrus West Field.

HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE

[July 29, 1866]

Come, listen all unto my song; It is no silly fable; 'Tis all about the mighty cord They call the Atlantic Cable.

Bold Cyrus Field he said, says he, "I have a pretty notion That I can run a telegraph Across the Atlantic Ocean."

Then all the people laughed, and said They'd like to see him do it; He might get half-seas over, but He never could go through it.

To carry out his foolish plan He never would be able; He might as well go hang himself With his Atlantic Cable.

But Cyrus was a valiant man, A fellow of decision; And heeded not their mocking words, Their laughter and derision.

Twice did his bravest efforts fail, And yet his mind was stable; He wa'n't the man to break his heart Because he broke his cable.

"Once more, my gallant boys!" he cried; "Three times!--you know the fable (I'll make it thirty," muttered he, "But I will lay the cable!").

Once more they tried,--hurrah! hurrah! What means this great commotion? The Lord be praised! the cable's laid Across the Atlantic Ocean!

Loud ring the bells,--for, flashing through Six hundred leagues of water, Old Mother England's benison Salutes her eldest daughter!

O'er all the land the tidings speed, And soon, in every nation, They'll hear about the cable with Profoundest admiration!

Now, long live President and Queen; And long live gallant Cyrus; And may his courage, faith, and zeal With emulation fire us;

And may we honor evermore The manly, bold, and stable; And tell our sons, to make them brave, How Cyrus laid the cable!

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

THE CABLE HYMN

O lonely bay of Trinity, O dreary shores, give ear! Lean down unto the white-lipped sea The voice of God to hear!

From world to world His couriers fly, Thought-winged and shod with fire; The angel of His stormy sky Rides down the sunken wire.

What saith the herald of the Lord? "The world's long strife is done; Close wedded by that mystic cord, Its continents are one.

"And one in heart, as one in blood, Shall all her peoples be; The hands of human brotherhood Are clasped beneath the sea.

"Through Orient seas, o'er Afric's plain And Asian mountains borne, The vigor of the Northern brain Shall nerve the world outworn.

"From clime to clime, from shore to shore, Shall thrill the magic thread; The new Prometheus steals once more The fire that wakes the dead."

Throb on, strong pulse of thunder! beat From answering beach to beach; Fuse nations in thy kindly heat, And melt the chains of each!

Wild terror of the sky above, Glide tamed and dumb below! Bear gently, Ocean's carrier-dove, Thy errands to and fro.

Weave on, swift shuttle of the Lord, Beneath the deep so far, The bridal robe of earth's accord, The funeral shroud of war!

For lo! the fall of Ocean's wall Space mocked and time outrun; And round the world the thought of all Is as the thought of one!

The poles unite, the zones agree, The tongues of striving cease; As on the Sea of Galilee The Christ is whispering, Peace!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

The most notable accomplishment of Johnson's administration was the purchase from Russia in 1867 of the territory of Alaska. The price paid was $7,200,000, and the cession was formally made on June 20.

AN ARCTIC VISION

[June 20, 1867]

Where the short-legged Esquimaux Waddle in the ice and snow, And the playful Polar bear Nips the hunter unaware; Where by day they track the ermine, And by night another vermin,-- Segment of the frigid zone, Where the temperature alone Warms on St. Elias' cone; Polar dock, where Nature slips From the ways her icy ships; Land of fox and deer and sable, Shore end of our western cable,-- Let the news that flying goes Thrill through all your Arctic floes, And reverberate the boast From the cliffs off Beechey's coast, Till the tidings, circling round Every bay of Norton Sound, Throw the vocal tide-wave back To the isles of Kodiac. Let the stately Polar bears Waltz around the pole in pairs, And the walrus, in his glee, Bare his tusk of ivory; While the bold sea-unicorn Calmly takes an extra horn; All ye Polar skies, reveal your Very rarest of parhelia; Trip it, all ye merry dancers, In the airiest of "Lancers"; Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide, One inch farther to the tide, Nor in rash precipitation Upset Tyndall's calculation. Know you not what fate awaits you, Or to whom the future mates you? All ye icebergs make salaam,-- You belong to Uncle Sam!

On the spot where Eugene Sue Led his wretched Wandering Jew, Stands a form whose features strike Russ and Esquimaux alike. He it is whom Skalds of old In their Runic rhymes foretold; Lean of flank and lank of jaw, See the real Northern Thor! See the awful Yankee leering Just across the Straits of Behring; On the drifted snow, too plain, Sinks his fresh tobacco stain, Just beside the deep inden- Tation of his Number 10.

Leaning on his icy hammer Stands the hero of this drama, And above the wild-duck's clamor, In his own peculiar grammar, With its linguistic disguises, Lo, the Arctic prologue rises: "Wall, I reckon 'tain't so bad, Seein' ez 'twas all they had; True, the Springs are rather late And early Falls predominate; But the ice crop's pretty sure, And the air is kind o' pure; 'Tain't so very mean a trade, When the land is all surveyed. There's a right smart chance for fur-chase All along this recent purchase, And, unless the stories fail, Every fish from cod to whale; Rocks, too; mebbe quartz; let's see,-- 'Twould be strange if there should be,-- Seems I've heerd such stories told; Eh!--why, bless us,--yes, it's gold!"

While the blows are falling thick From his California pick, You may recognize the Thor Of the vision that I saw,-- Freed from legendary glamour, See the real magician's hammer.

BRET HARTE.

ALASKA

Ice built, ice bound, and ice bounded, Such cold seas of silence! such room! Such snow-light, such sea-light, confounded With thunders that smite like a doom! Such grandeur! such glory! such gloom! Hear that boom! Hear that deep distant boom Of an avalanche hurled Down this unfinished world!

Ice seas! and ice summits! ice spaces In splendor of white, as God's throne! Ice worlds to the pole! and ice places Untracked, and unnamed, and unknown! Hear that boom! Hear the grinding, the groan Of the ice-gods in pain! Hear the moan Of yon ice mountain hurled Down this unfinished world.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

Friday, September 24, 1869, witnessed one of the greatest panics ever known in the United States, when Jay Gould and a few associates managed to drive the price of gold up to 162-1/2.

ISRAEL FREYER'S BID FOR GOLD

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1869

Zounds! how the price went flashing through Wall Street, William, Broad Street, New! All the specie in all the land Held in one Ring by a giant hand-- For millions more it was ready to pay, And throttle the Street on hangman's-day. Up from the Gold Pit's nether hell, While the innocent fountain rose and fell, Loud and higher the bidding rose, And the bulls, triumphant, faced their foes. It seemed as if Satan himself were in it: Lifting it--one per cent a minute-- Through the bellowing broker, there amid, Who made the terrible, final bid! High over all, and ever higher, Was heard the voice of Israel Freyer,-- A doleful knell in the storm-swept mart,-- "Five millions more! and for any part I'll give One Hundred and Sixty!"

Israel Freyer--the Government Jew-- Good as the best--soaked through and through With credit gained in the year he sold Our Treasury's precious hoard of gold; Now through his thankless mouth rings out The leaguers' last and cruellest shout! Pity the shorts? Not they, indeed, While a single rival's left to bleed! Down come dealers in silks and hides, Crowding the Gold Room's rounded sides, Jostling, trampling each other's feet, Uttering groans in the outer street; Watching, with upturned faces pale, The scurrying index mark its tale; Hearing the bid of Israel Freyer,-- That ominous voice, would it never tire? "Five millions more!--for any part (If it breaks your firm, if it cracks your heart), I'll give One Hundred and Sixty!"

One Hundred and Sixty! Can't be true! What will the bears-at-forty do? How will the merchants pay their dues? How will the country stand the news? What'll the banks--but listen! hold! In screwing upward the price of gold To that dangerous, last, particular peg, They have killed their Goose with the Golden Egg! Just there the metal came pouring out, All ways at once, like a water-spout, Or a rushing, gushing, yellow flood, That drenched the bulls wherever they stood! Small need to open the Washington main, Their coffer-dams were burst with the strain! It came by runners, it came by wire, To answer the bid of Israel Freyer, It poured in millions from every side, And almost strangled him as he cried,-- "I'll give One Hundred and Sixty!"

Like Vulcan after Jupiter's kick, Or the aphoristical Rocket's stick, Down, down, down, the premium fell, Faster than this rude rhyme can tell! Thirty per cent the index slid, Yet Freyer still kept making his bid,-- "One Hundred and Sixty for any part!" --The sudden ruin had crazed his heart, Shattered his senses, cracked his brain, And left him crying again and again,-- Still making his bid at the market's top (Like the Dutchman's leg that never could stop), "One Hundred and Sixty--Five Millions more!" Till they dragged him, howling, off the floor. The very last words that seller and buyer Heard from the mouth of Israel Freyer-- A cry to remember long as they live-- Were, "I'll take Five Millions more! I'll give-- I'll give One Hundred and Sixty!"

Suppose (to avoid the appearance of evil) There's such a thing as a Personal Devil, It would seem that his Highness here got hold, For once, of a bellowing Bull in Gold! Whether bull or bear, it wouldn't much matter Should Israel Freyer keep up his clatter On earth or under it (as, they say, He is doomed) till the general Judgment Day, When the Clerk, as he cites him to answer for 't, Shall bid him keep silence in that Court! But it matters most, as it seems to me, That my countrymen, great and strong and free, So marvel at fellows who seem to win, That if even a Clown can only begin By stealing a railroad, and use its purse For cornering stocks and gold, or--worse-- For buying a Judge and Legislature, And sinking still lower poor human nature, The gaping public, whatever befall, Will swallow him, tandem, harlots, and all! While our rich men drivel and stand amazed At the dust and pother his gang have raised, And make us remember a nursery tale Of the four-and-twenty who feared one snail.

What's bred in the bone will breed, you know; Clowns and their trainers, high and low, Will cut such capers, long as they dare, While honest Poverty says its prayer. But tell me what prayer or fast can save Some hoary candidate for the grave, The market's wrinkled Giant Despair, Muttering, brooding, scheming there,-- Founding a college or building a church Lest Heaven should leave him in the lurch! Better come out in the rival way, Issue your scrip in open day, And pour your wealth in the grimy fist Of some gross-mouthed, gambling pugilist; Leave toil and poverty where they lie, Pass thinkers, workers, artists, by, Your pot-house fag from his counters bring And make him into a Railway King! Between such Gentiles and such Jews Little enough one finds to choose: Either the other will buy and use, Eat the meat and throw him the bone, And leave him to stand the brunt alone.

--Let the tempest come, that's gathering near, And give us a better atmosphere!

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

On October 8 and 9, 1871, Chicago, which had grown to be the greatest city in the West, was almost entirely destroyed by fire. An area of three and a half square miles was burned over; two hundred people were killed and a hundred thousand rendered homeless.

CHICAGO

[October 8-10, 1871]

Men said at vespers: "All is well!" In one wild night the city fell; Fell shrines of prayer and marts of gain Before the fiery hurricane.

On threescore spires had sunset shone, Where ghastly sunrise looked on none. Men clasped each other's hands, and said: "The City of the West is dead!"

Brave hearts who fought, in slow retreat, The fiends of fire from street to street, Turned, powerless, to the blinding glare, The dumb defiance of despair.

A sudden impulse thrilled each wire That signalled round that sea of fire; Swift words of cheer, warm heart-throbs came; In tears of pity died the flame!

From East, from West, from South and North, The messages of hope shot forth, And, underneath the severing wave, The world, full-handed, reached to save.

Fair seemed the old; but fairer still The new, the dreary void shall fill With dearer homes than those o'erthrown, For love shall lay each corner-stone.

Rise, stricken city! from thee throw The ashen sackcloth of thy woe; And build, as to Amphion's strain, To songs of cheer thy walls again!

How shrivelled in thy hot distress The primal sin of selfishness! How instant rose, to take thy part, The angel in the human heart!

Ah! not in vain the flames that tossed Above thy dreadful holocaust; The Christ again has preached through thee The Gospel of Humanity!

Then lift once more thy towers on high, And fret with spires the western sky, To tell that God is yet with us, And love is still miraculous!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

CHICAGO

Blackened and bleeding, helpless, panting, prone, On the charred fragments of her shattered throne Lies she who stood but yesterday alone.

Queen of the West! by some enchanter taught To lift the glory of Aladdin's court, Then lose the spell that all that wonder wrought.

Like her own prairies by some chance seed sown, Like her own prairies in one brief day grown, Like her own prairies in one fierce night mown.

She lifts her voice, and in her pleading call We hear the cry of Macedon to Paul, The cry for help that makes her kin to all.

But haply with wan fingers may she feel The silver cup hid in the proffered meal, The gifts her kinship and our loves reveal.

BRET HARTE.

The whole country rallied to the aid of the stricken city. An Aid and Relief Society was at once formed, and within a month had received subscriptions aggregating three and a half millions.

CHICAGO

Gaunt in the midst of the prairie, She who was once so fair; Charred and rent are her garments, Heavy and dark like cerements; Silent, but round her the air Plaintively wails, "Miserere!"

Proud like a beautiful maiden, Art-like from forehead to feet, Was she till pressed like a leman Close to the breast of the demon, Lusting for one so sweet, So were her shoulders laden.

Friends she had, rich in her treasures: Shall the old taunt be true,-- Fallen, they turn their cold faces, Seeking new wealth-gilded places, Saying we never knew Aught of her smiles or her pleasures?

Silent she stands on the prairie, Wrapped in her fire-scathed sheet: Around her, thank God, is the Nation, Weeping for her desolation, Pouring its gold at her feet, Answering her "Miserere!"

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

Only second to the Chicago fire in destructiveness was that which visited Boston in the following year. It started on Saturday evening, November 9, 1872, and sixty-five acres were laid waste before it was controlled.

BOSTON

[November 9, 1872]

O broad-breasted Queen among Nations! O Mother, so strong in thy youth! Has the Lord looked upon thee in ire, And willed thou be chastened by fire, Without any ruth?

Has the Merciful tired of His mercy, And turned from thy sinning in wrath, That the world with raised hand sees and pities Thy desolate daughters, thy cities, Despoiled on their path?

One year since thy youngest was stricken: Thy eldest lies stricken to-day. Ah! God, was Thy wrath without pity, To tear the strong heart from our city, And cast it away?

O Father! forgive us our doubting; The stain from our weak souls efface; Thou rebukest, we know, but to chasten, Thy hand has but fallen to hasten Return to Thy grace.

Let us rise purified from our ashes As sinners have risen who grieved; Let us show that twice-sent desolation On every true heart in the nation Has conquest achieved.

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

The district burned contained the finest business blocks in the city, and the loss was estimated at $80,000,000. For a time, it seemed that the famous "Old South" would be destroyed.

THE CHURCH OF THE REVOLUTION

"The Old South stands."

Loud through the still November air The clang and clash of fire-bells broke; From street to street, from square to square, Rolled sheets of flame and clouds of smoke. The marble structures reeled and fell, The iron pillars bowed like lead; But one lone spire rang on its bell Above the flames. Men passed, and said, "The Old South stands!"

The gold moon, 'gainst a copper sky, Hung like a portent in the air, The midnight came, the wind rose high, And men stood speechless in despair. But, as the marble columns broke, And wider grew the chasm red,-- A seething gulf of flame and smoke,-- The firemen marked the spire and said, "The Old South stands!"

Beyond the harbor, calm and fair, The sun came up through bars of gold, Then faded in a wannish glare, As flame and smoke still upward rolled. The princely structures, crowned with art, Where Commerce laid her treasures bare; The haunts of trade, the common mart, All vanished in the withering air,-- "The Old South stands!"

"The Old South must be levelled soon To check the flames and save the street; Bring fuse and powder." But at noon The ancient fane still stood complete. The mitred flame had lipped the spire, The smoke its blackness o'er it cast; Then, hero-like, men fought the fire, And from each lip the watchword passed,-- "The Old South stands!"

All night the red sea round it rolled, And o'er it fell the fiery rain: And, as each hour the old clock told, Men said, "'Twill never strike again!" But still the dial-plate at morn Was crimsoned in the rising light. Long may it redden with the dawn, And mark the shading hours of night! Long may it stand!

Long may it stand! where help was sought In weak and dark and doubtful days: Where freedom's lessons first were taught, And prayers of faith were turned to praise; Where burned the first Shekinah's flame In God's new temples of the free; Long may it stand, in freedom's name, Like Israel's pillar by the sea! Long may it stand!

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

The nation rushed to Boston's aid just as it had done to Chicago's, and the city soon rose from her ashes greater than ever.

AFTER THE FIRE

While far along the eastern sky I saw the flags of Havoc fly, As if his forces would assault The sovereign of the starry vault And hurl Him back the burning rain That seared the cities of the plain, I read as on a crimson page The words of Israel's sceptred sage:--

_For riches make them wings, and they Do as an eagle fly away._

O vision of that sleepless night, What hue shall paint the mocking light That burned and stained the orient skies Where peaceful morning loves to rise, As if the sun had lost his way And dawned to make a second day,-- Above how red with fiery glow, How dark to those it woke below!

On roof and wall, on dome and spire, Flashed the false jewels of the fire; Girt with her belt of glittering panes, And crowned with starry-gleaming vanes, Our northern queen in glory shone With new-born splendors not her own, And stood, transfigured in our eyes, A victim decked for sacrifice!

The cloud still hovers overhead, And still the midnight sky is red; As the lost wanderer strays alone To seek the place he called his own, His devious footprints sadly tell How changed the pathways known so well; The scene, how new! The tale, how old Ere yet the ashes have grown cold!

Again I read the words that came Writ in the rubric of the flame: Howe'er we trust to mortal things, Each hath its pair of folded wings; Though long their terrors rest unspread Their fatal plumes are never shed; At last, at last, they stretch in flight, And blot the day and blast the night!

Hope, only Hope, of all that clings Around us, never spreads her wings; Love, though he break his earthly chain, Still whispers he will come again; But Faith that soars to seek the sky Shall teach our half-fledged souls to fly, And find, beyond the smoke and flame, The cloudless azure whence they came!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

On May 16, 1874, the bursting of a reservoir dam at Williamsburg, Mass., caused a disastrous flood, costing one hundred and forty lives and the loss of $1,500,000 in property. The loss of life would have been far greater but for the heroism of a milkman named Collins Graves, who rode forward in front of the flood, giving warning.

THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES

[May 16, 1874]

No song of a soldier riding down To the raging fight from Winchester town; No song of a time that shook the earth With the nations' throe at a nation's birth; But the song of a brave man, free from fear As Sheridan's self or Paul Revere; Who risked what they risked, free from strife And its promise of glorious pay,--his life!

The peaceful valley has waked and stirred, And the answering echoes of life are heard; The dew still clings to the trees and grass, And the early toilers smiling pass, As they glance aside at the white-walled homes, Or up the valley, where merrily comes The brook that sparkles in diamond rills As the sun comes over the Hampshire hills.

What was it passed like an ominous breath-- Like a shiver of fear, or a touch of death? What was it? The valley is peaceful still, And the leaves are afire on top of the hill; It was not a sound, nor a thing of sense,-- But a pain, like the pang of the short suspense That thrills the being of those who see At their feet the gulf of Eternity.

The air of the valley has felt the chill; The workers pause at the door of the mill; The housewife, keen to the shivering air, Arrests her foot on the cottage stair, Instinctive taught by the mother-love, And thinks of the sleeping ones above.

Why start the listeners? Why does the course Of the mill-stream widen? Is it a horse-- "Hark to the sound of the hoofs!" they say-- That gallops so wildly Williamsburg way?

God! what was that, like a human shriek From the winding valley? Will nobody speak? Will nobody answer those women who cry As the awful warnings thunder by?

Whence come they? Listen! and now they hear The sound of the galloping horse-hoofs near; They watch the trend of the vale, and see The rider who thunders so menacingly, With waving arms and warning scream To the home-filled banks of the valley stream. He draws no rein, but he shakes the street With a shout and the ring of the galloping feet, And this the cry he flings to the wind,-- "To the hills for your lives! The flood is behind!"

He cries and is gone, but they know the worst,-- The breast of the Williamsburg dam has burst! The basin that nourished their happy homes Is changed to a demon. It comes! it comes!

A monster in aspect, with shaggy front Of shattered dwellings to take the brunt Of the homes they shatter;--white-maned and hoarse, The merciless Terror fills the course Of the narrow valley, and rushing raves, With death on the first of its hissing waves, Till cottage and street and crowded mill Are crumbled and crushed. But onward still, In front of the roaring flood, is heard The galloping horse and the warning word. Thank God! the brave man's life is spared! From Williamsburg town he nobly dared To race with the flood, and take the road In front of the terrible swath it mowed.

For miles it thundered and crashed behind, But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind: "They must be warned!" was all he said, As away on his terrible ride he sped.

When heroes are called for, bring the crown To this Yankee rider; send him down On the stream of time with the Curtius old; His deed, as the Roman's, was brave and bold; And the tale can as noble a thrill awake, For he offered his life for the people's sake!

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

II. THE YEAR OF A HUNDRED YEARS

The year 1876 marked the completion of the first century of independence, and it was decided to celebrate it in a worthy manner. The city of Philadelphia, where the country had been born, was fittingly selected as the place for the celebration.

OUR FIRST CENTURY

It cannot be that men who are the seed Of Washington should miss fame's true applause; Franklin did plan us; Marshall gave us laws; And slow the broad scroll grew a people's creed-- Union and Liberty! then at our need, Time's challenge coming, Lincoln gave it pause, Upheld the double pillars of the cause, And dying left them whole--our crowning deed.

Such was the fathering race that made all fast, Who founded us, and spread from sea to sea A thousand leagues the zone of liberty, And built for man this refuge from his past, Unkinged, unchurched, unsoldiered; shamed were we, Failing the stature that such sires forecast!

GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY.

The celebration took the form of a great industrial exposition, at which the arts and industries of the whole world were represented. The exposition was opened on May 10, 1876, more than a hundred thousand people being present. Wagner had composed a march for the occasion and Whittier's "Centennial Hymn" was sung by a chorus of a thousand voices.

CENTENNIAL HYMN

I

Our fathers' God! from out whose hand The centuries fall like grains of sand, We meet to-day, united, free, And loyal to our land and Thee, To thank Thee for the era done, And trust Thee for the opening one.

II

Here, where of old, by Thy design, The fathers spake that word of Thine Whose echo is the glad refrain Of rended bolt and falling chain, To grace our festal time, from all The zones of earth our guests we call.

III

Be with us while the New World greets The Old World thronging all its streets, Unveiling all the triumphs won By art or toil beneath the sun; And unto common good ordain This rivalship of hand and brain.

IV

Thou, who hast here in concord furled The war flags of a gathered world, Beneath our Western skies fulfil The Orient's mission of good-will, And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece, Send back its Argonauts of peace.

V

For art and labor met in truce, For beauty made the bride of use, We thank Thee; but, withal, we crave The austere virtues strong to save, The honor proof to place or gold, The manhood never bought nor sold!

VI

Oh make Thou us, through centuries long, In peace secure, in justice strong; Around our gift of freedom draw The safeguards of Thy righteous law: And, cast in some diviner mould, Let the new cycle shame the old!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

"The restored South chanted the praises of the Union in the words of Sidney Lanier, the Georgia poet." The poem was written as a cantata, the music for which was composed by Dudley Buck.

THE CENTENNIAL MEDITATION OF COLUMBIA[13]

1776-1876

From this hundred-terraced height, Sight more large with nobler light Ranges down yon towering years. Humbler smiles and lordlier tears Shine and fall, shine and fall, While old voices rise and call Yonder where the to-and-fro Weltering of my Long-Ago Moves about the moveless base Far below my resting-place.

Mayflower, Mayflower, slowly hither flying, Trembling westward o'er yon balking sea, Hearts within Farewell dear England sighing, Winds without But dear in vain replying, Gray-lipp'd waves about thee shouted, crying "No! It shall not be!"

Jamestown, out of thee-- Plymouth, thee--thee, Albany-- Winter cries, Ye freeze: away! Fever cries, Ye burn: away! Hunger cries, Ye starve: away! Vengeance cries, Your graves shall stay!

Then old Shapes and Masks of Things, Framed like Faiths or clothed like Kings, Ghosts of Goods once fleshed and fair, Grown foul Bads in alien air-- War, and his most noisy lords, Tongued with lithe and poisoned swords-- Error, Terror, Rage, and Crime, All in a windy night of time Cried to me from land and sea, No! Thou shalt not be!

Hark! Huguenots whispering yea in the dark, Puritans answering yea in the dark! Yea like an arrow shot true to his mark, Darts through the tyrannous heart of Denial. Patience and Labor and solemn-souled Trial, Foiled, still beginning, Soiled, but not sinning. Toil through the stertorous death of the Night, Toil when wild brother-wars new-dark the Light, Toil, and forgive, and kiss o'er, and replight.

Now Praise to God's oft-granted grace, Now Praise to Man's undaunted face, Despite the land, despite the sea, I was: I am: and I shall be-- How long, Good Angel, O how long? Sing me from Heaven a man's own song!

"Long as thine Art shall love true love, Long as thy Science truth shall know, Long as thine Eagle harms no Dove, Long as thy Law by law shall grow, Long as thy God is God above, Thy brother every man below, So long, dear Land of all my love, Thy name shall shine, thy fame shall glow!"

O Music, from this height of time my Word unfold: In thy large signals all men's hearts Man's heart behold: Mid-heaven unroll thy chords as friendly flags unfurled, And wave the world's best lover's welcome to the world.

SIDNEY LANIER.

[13] From Poems by Sidney Lanier; copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier; published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

President Grant then declared the exposition open. It was a success from the very start, and great crowds were every day in attendance.

CENTENNIAL HYMN

1876

Through calm and storm the years have led Our nation on, from stage to stage-- A century's space--until we tread The threshold of another age.

We see where o'er our pathway swept A torrent-stream of blood and fire, And thank the Guardian Power who kept Our sacred League of States entire.

Oh, chequered train of years, farewell! With all thy strifes and hopes and fears! Yet with us let thy memories dwell, To warn and teach the coming years.

And thou, the new-beginning age, Warned by the past, and not in vain, Write on a fairer, whiter page, The record of thy happier reign.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

On July 4, 1876, simple but impressive exercises were held in the public square in the rear of Independence Hall, where, a century before, a great throng had awaited the promulgation of the "Declaration."

WELCOME TO THE NATIONS

PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876

Bright on the banners of lily and rose Lo! the last sun of our century sets! Wreathe the black cannon that scowled on our foes, All but her friendships the nation forgets! All but her friends and their welcome forgets! These are around her; but where are her foes? Lo, while the sun of her century sets, Peace with her garlands of lily and rose!

Welcome! a shout like the war trumpet's swell Wakes the wild echoes that slumber around! Welcome! it quivers from Liberty's bell; Welcome! the walls of her temple resound! Hark! the gray walls of her temple resound! Fade the far voices o'er hillside and dell; Welcome! still whisper the echoes around; Welcome! still trembles on Liberty's bell!

Thrones of the continent! isles of the sea! Yours are the garlands of peace we entwine; Welcome, once more, to the land of the free, Shadowed alike by the palm and the pine; Softly they murmur, the palm and the pine, "Hushed is our strife, in the land of the free;" Over your children their branches entwine Thrones of the continents! isles of the sea!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

"The National Ode" was read by its author, Bayard Taylor, whose deep voice and impressive delivery added appreciably to the majesty of the lines.

THE NATIONAL ODE

INDEPENDENCE SQUARE, PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876

I-1

Sun of the stately Day, Let Asia into the shadow drift, Let Europe bask in thy ripened ray, And over the severing ocean lift A brow of broader splendor! Give light to the eager eyes Of the Land that waits to behold thee rise; The gladness of morning lend her, With the triumph of noon attend her, And the peace of the vesper skies! For, lo! she cometh now With hope on the lip and pride on the brow, Stronger, and dearer, and fairer, To smile on the love we bear her,-- To live, as we dreamed her and sought her, Liberty's latest daughter! In the clefts of the rocks, in the secret places, We found her traces; On the hills, in the crash of woods that fall, We heard her call; When the lines of battle broke, We saw her face in the fiery smoke; Through toil, and anguish, and desolation, We followed, and found her With the grace of a virgin Nation As a sacred zone around her! Who shall rejoice With a righteous voice, Far-heard through the ages, if not she? For the menace is dumb that defied her, The doubt is dead that denied her, And she stands acknowledged, and strong, and free!

II-1

Ah, hark! the solemn undertone, On every wind of human story blown. A large, divinely-moulded Fate Questions the right and purpose of a State, And in its plan sublime Our eras are the dust of Time. The far-off Yesterday of power Creeps back with stealthy feet, Invades the lordship of the hour, And at our banquet takes the unbidden seat. From all unchronicled and silent ages Before the Future first begot the Past, Till History dared, at last, To write eternal words on granite pages; From Egypt's tawny drift, and Assur's mound, And where, uplifted white and far, Earth highest yearns to meet a star, And Man his manhood by the Ganges found,-- Imperial heads, of old millennial sway, And still by some pale splendor crowned, Chill as a corpse-light in our full-orbed day, In ghostly grandeur rise And say, through stony lips and vacant eyes: "Thou that assertest freedom, power, and fame, Declare to us thy claim!"

I-2

On the shores of a Continent cast, She won the inviolate soil By loss of heirdom of all the Past, And faith in the royal right of Toil! She planted homes on the savage sod: Into the wilderness lone She walked with fearless feet, In her hand the divining-rod, Till the veins of the mountains beat With fire of metal and force of stone! She set the speed of the river-head To turn the mills of her bread; She drove her ploughshare deep Through the prairie's thousand-centuried sleep, To the South, and West, and North, She called Pathfinder forth, Her faithful and sole companion Where the flushed Sierra, snow-starred, Her way to the sunset barred, And the nameless rivers in thunder and foam Channelled the terrible canyon! Nor paused, till her uttermost home Was built, in the smile of a softer sky And the glory of beauty still to be, Where the haunted waves of Asia die On the strand of the world-wide sea!

II-2

The race, in conquering, Some fierce, Titanic joy of conquest knows; Whether in veins of serf or king, Our ancient blood beats restless in repose. Challenge of Nature unsubdued Awaits not Man's defiant answer long; For hardship, even as wrong, Provokes the level-eyed heroic mood. This for herself she did; but that which lies, As over earth the skies, Blending all forms in one benignant glow,-- Crowned conscience, tender care, Justice that answers every bondman's prayer, Freedom where Faith may lead and Thought may dare, The power of minds that know, Passion of hearts that feel, Purchased by blood and woe, Guarded by fire and steel,-- Hath she secured? What blazon on her shield, In the clear Century's light Shines to the world revealed, Declaring nobler triumph, born of Right?

I-3

Foreseen in the vision of sages, Foretold when martyrs bled, She was born of the longing of ages, By the truth of the noble dead And the faith of the living fed! No blood in her lightest veins Frets at remembered chains, Nor shame of bondage has bowed her head. In her form and features still The unblenching Puritan will, Cavalier honor, Huguenot grace, The Quaker truth and sweetness, And the strength of the danger-girdled race Of Holland, blend in a proud completeness. From the homes of all, where her being began, She took what she gave to Man; Justice, that knew no station, Belief, as soul decreed, Free air for aspiration, Free force for independent deed! She takes, but to give again, As the sea returns the rivers in rain; And gathers the chosen of her seed From the hunted of every crown and creed. Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine; Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine; Her France pursues some dream divine; Her Norway keeps his mountain pine; Her Italy waits by the western brine; And, broad-based under all, Is planted England's oaken-hearted mood, As rich in fortitude As e'er went worldward from the island-wall! Fused in her candid light, To one strong race all races here unite: Tongues melt in hers, hereditary foemen Forget their sword and slogan, kith and clan: 'Twas glory, once, to be a Roman: She makes it glory, now, to be a man!

II-3

Bow down! Doff thine æonian crown! One hour forget The glory, and recall the debt: Make expiation, Of humbler mood, For the pride of thine exultation O'er peril conquered and strife subdued. But half the right is wrested When victory yields her prize, And half the marrow tested When old endurance dies. In the sight of them that love thee, Bow to the Greater above thee! He faileth not to smite The idle ownership of Right, Nor spares to sinews fresh from trial, And virtue schooled in long denial, The tests that wait for thee In larger perils of prosperity. Here, at the Century's awful shrine, Bow to thy Father's God, and thine!

I-4

Behold! she bendeth now, Humbling the chaplet of her hundred years. There is a solemn sweetness on her brow, And in her eyes are sacred tears. Can she forget, In present joy, the burden of her debt, When for a captive race She grandly staked, and won, The total promise of her power begun, And bared her bosom's grace To the sharp wound that inly tortures yet? Can she forget The million graves her young devotion set, The hands that clasp above, From either side, in sad, returning love? Can she forget, Here, where the Ruler of to-day, The Citizen of to-morrow, And equal thousands to rejoice and pray Beside these holy walls are met, Her birth-cry, mixed of keenest bliss and sorrow? Where, on July's immortal morn Held forth, the People saw her head And shouted to the world: "The King is dead, But, lo! the Heir is born!" When fire of Youth, and sober trust of Age, In Farmer, Soldier, Priest, and Sage, Arose and cast upon her Baptismal garments,--never robes so fair Clad prince in Old-World air,-- Their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor!

II-4

Arise! Recrown thy head, Radiant with blessings of the Dead! Bear from this hallowed place The prayer that purifies thy lips, The light of courage that defies eclipse, The rose of Man's new morning on thy face! Let no iconoclast Invade thy rising Pantheon of the Past, To make a blank where Adams stood, To touch the Father's sheathed and sacred blade, Spoil crowns on Jefferson and Franklin laid, Or wash from Freedom's feet the stain of Lincoln's blood! Hearken, as from that haunted Hall Their voices call: "We lived and died for thee; We greatly dared that thou might'st be: So, from thy children still We claim denials which at last fulfil, And freedom yielded to preserve thee free!" Beside clear-hearted Right That smiles at Power's uplifted rod, Plant Duties that requite, And Order that sustains, upon thy sod, And stand in stainless might Above all self, and only less than God!

III-1

Here may thy solemn challenge end, All-proving Past, and each discordance die Of doubtful augury, Or in one choral with the Present blend, And that half-heard, sweet harmony Of something nobler that our sons may see! Though poignant memories burn Of days that were, and may again return, When thy fleet foot, O Huntress of the Woods, The slippery brinks of danger knew, And dim the eyesight grew That was so sure in thine old solitudes,-- Yet stays some richer sense Won from the mixture of thine elements, To guide the vagrant scheme, And winnow truth from each conflicting dream! Yet in thy blood shall live Some force unspent, some essence primitive, To seize the highest use of things; For Fate, to mould thee to her plan, Denied thee food of kings, Withheld the udder and the orchard-fruits, Fed thee with savage roots, And forced thy harsher milk from barren breasts of man!

III-2

O sacred Woman-Form, Of the first People's need and passion wrought,-- No thin, pale ghost of Thought, But fair as Morning and as heart's-blood warm,-- Wearing thy priestly tiar on Judah's hills; Clear-eyed beneath Athene's helm of gold; Or from Rome's central seat Hearing the pulses of the Continents beat In thunder where her legions rolled; Compact of high heroic hearts and wills, Whose being circles all The selfless aims of men, and all fulfils; Thyself not free, so long as one is thrall; Goddess, that as a Nation lives, And as a Nation dies, That for her children as a man defies, And to her children as a mother gives,-- Take our fresh fealty now! No more a Chieftainess, with wampum-zone And feather-cinctured brow,-- No more a new Britannia, grown To spread an equal banner to the breeze, And lift thy trident o'er the double seas; But with unborrowed crest, In thine own native beauty dressed,-- The front of pure command, the unflinching eye, thine own!

III-3

Look up, look forth, and on! There's light in the dawning sky: The clouds are parting, the night is gone: Prepare for the work of the day! Fallow thy pastures lie, And far thy shepherds stray, And the fields of thy vast domain Are waiting for purer seed Of knowledge, desire, and deed, For keener sunshine and mellower rain! But keep thy garments pure: Pluck them back, with the old disdain, From touch of the hands that stain! So shall thy strength endure. Transmute into good the gold of Gain, Compel to beauty thy ruder powers, Till the bounty of coming hours Shall plant, on thy fields apart, With the oak of Toil, the rose of Art! Be watchful, and keep us so: Be strong, and fear no foe: Be just, and the world shall know! With the same love love us, as we give; And the day shall never come, That finds us weak or dumb To join and smite and cry In the great task, for thee to die, And the greater task, for thee to live!

BAYARD TAYLOR.

Richard Henry Lee, grandson of the mover of the Declaration, came to the front with the original document in his hands, and read its sonorous sentences. William M. Evarts delivered an oration and "Our National Banner," words by Dexter Smith, music by Sir Julius Benedict, was sung.

OUR NATIONAL BANNER

[July 4, 1876]

O'er the high and o'er the lowly Floats that banner bright and holy In the rays of Freedom's sun, In the nation's heart embedded, O'er our Union newly wedded, One in all, and all in one.

Let that banner wave forever, May its lustrous stars fade never, Till the stars shall pale on high; While there's right the wrong defeating, While there's hope in true hearts beating, Truth and freedom shall not die.

As it floated long before us, Be it ever floating o'er us, O'er our land from shore to shore: There are freemen yet to wave it, Millions who would die to save it, Wave it, save it, evermore.

DEXTER SMITH.

The exposition closed November 10, 1876. It had served to draw all sections of the country more closely together, and to establish the industrial position of the United States among the nations of the world.

AFTER THE CENTENNIAL

(A HOPE)

Before our eyes a pageant rolled Whose banners every land unfurled; And as it passed, its splendors told The art and glory of the world.

The nations of the earth have stood With face to face and hand in hand, And sworn to common brotherhood The sundered souls of every land.

And while America is pledged To light her Pharos towers for all, While her broad mantle, starred and edged With truth, o'er high and low shall fall;

And while the electric nerves still belt The State and Continent in one,-- The discords of the past shall melt Like ice beneath the summer sun.

O land of hope! thy future years Are shrouded from our mortal sight; But thou canst turn the century's fears To heralds of a cloudless light!

The sacred torch our fathers lit No wild misrule can ever quench; Still in our midst wise judges sit, Whom party passion cannot blench.

From soul to soul, from hand to hand Thy sons have passed that torch along, Whose flame by Wisdom's breath is fanned Whose staff is held by runners strong.

O Spirit of immortal truth, Thy power alone that circles all Can feed the fire as in its youth-- Can hold the runners lest they fall!

CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.

III. THE CONQUEST OF THE PLAINS

The Indians had long since ceased to be a serious menace to the United States, and the policy of the government for many years had been to settle them upon various selected tracts of land west of the Mississippi. But the population of the West was increasing very rapidly, the completion of the railway to the Pacific having given it a great impetus.

THE PACIFIC RAILWAY

FINISHED, MAY 10, 1869

"And a Highway shall there be."

'Tis "Done"--the wondrous thoroughfare Type of that Highway all divine! No ancient wonder can compare With this, in grandeur of design. For, 'twas no visionary scheme To immortalize the builder's name; No impulse rash, no transient dream Of some mere worshipper of Fame.

Rare common sense conceived the plan, For working out a lasting good-- The full development of Man; The growth of human brotherhood! And lo! by patient toil and care, The work with rare success is crowned; And nations, yet to be, will share In blessings that shall e'er abound.

Across a continent's expanse, The lengthening track now runs secure, O'er which the Iron Horse shall prance, So long as earth and time endure! His course extends from East to West-- From where Atlantic billows roar, To where the quiet waters rest, Beside the far Pacific shore.

Proud commerce, by Atlantic gales Tossed to and fro,--her canvas rent-- Will gladly furl her wearied sails, And glide across a continent. Through smiling valleys, broad and free, O'er rivers wide, or mountain-crest, Her course shall swift and peaceful be, Till she has reached the farthest West.

And e'en the treasures of the East, Diverted from their wonted track,-- With safety gained, with speed increased,-- Will follow in her footsteps back. And thus the Nations, greatly blest, Will share another triumph, won, That links yet closer East and West-- The rising and the setting sun!

This glorious day with joy we greet! May Faith abound, may Love increase, And may this highway, now complete, Be the glad harbinger of Peace! God bless the Work, that it may prove The source of greater good in store, When Man shall heed the law of Love, And Nations shall learn war no more.

C. R. BALLARD.

During the autumn of 1874, gold was discovered in the Black Hills Sioux reservation and explorers rushed in; a still worse grievance was the wanton destruction of bison by hunters and excursionists. Driven to frenzy, at last, tribe after tribe of savages took up arms, and started on a career of murder and rapine.

AFTER THE COMANCHES

Saddle! saddle! saddle! Mount, mount, and away! Over the dim green prairie, Straight on the track of day; Spare not spur for mercy, Hurry with shout and thong, Fiery and tough is the mustang, The prairie is wide and long.

Saddle! saddle! saddle! Leap from the broken door, Where the brute Comanche entered, And the white-foot treads no more! The hut is burnt to ashes, There are dead men stark outside, And only a long torn ringlet Left of the stolen bride.

Go like the east wind's howling, Ride with death behind, Stay not for food or slumber, Till the thieving wolves ye find! They came before the wedding, Swifter than prayer or priest; The bride-men danced to bullets, The wild dogs ate the feast.

Look to rifle and powder, Buckle the knife-belt sure; Loose the coil of the lasso, And make the loop secure; Fold the flask in the poncho, Fill the pouch with maize, And ride as if to-morrow Were the last of living days.

Saddle! saddle! saddle! Redden spur and thong, Ride like the mad tornado, The track is lonely and long, Spare not horse nor rider, Fly for the stolen bride! Bring her home on the crupper, A scalp on either side.

It was decided to transfer the Sioux to another reservation, but, under the advice of Sitting Bull, they refused to stir. A detachment under Lieutenant-Colonel George A. Custer was sent against them, and came suddenly upon their encampment on June 25, 1876. A terrific fight followed, in which Custer and all of his men were killed.

DOWN THE LITTLE BIG HORN

June 25, 1876

Down the Little Big Horn (O troop forlorn!), Right into the camp of the Sioux (What was the muster?), Two hundred and sixty-two Went into the fight with Custer, Went out of the fight with Custer, Went out at a breath, Stanch to the death! Just from the canyon emerging, Saw they the braves of Sitting Bull surging, Two thousand and more, Painted and feathered, thirsting for gore, Did they shrink and turn back (Hear how the rifles crack!), Did they pause for a life, For a sweetheart or wife?

And one in that savage throng (His revenge had waited long), Pomped with porcupine quills, His deerskins beaded and fringed, An eagle's plume in his long black hair, His tall lance fluttering in the air, Glanced at the circling hills-- His cheeks flushed with a keen surmise, A demon's hate in his eyes Remembering the hour when he cringed, A prisoner thonged, Chief Rain-in-the-Face (There was a sachem wronged!) Saw his enemy's heart laid bare, Feasted in thought like a beast in his lair.

Cavalry, cavalry (Tramp of the hoof, champ of the bit), Horses prancing, cavorting, Shying and snorting, Accoutrements rattling (Children at home are prattling), Gallantly, gallantly, "Company dismount!" From the saddle they swing, With their steeds form a ring (Hear how the bullets sing!), Who can their courage recount?

Do you blanch at their fate? (Who would hesitate?) Two hundred and sixty-two Immortals in blue, Standing shoulder to shoulder, Like some granite boulder You must blast to displace (Were they of a valiant race?)-- Two hundred and sixty-two, And never a man to say, "I rode with Custer that day." Give the savage his triumph and bluster, Give the hero to perish with Custer, To his God and his comrades true.

Closing and closing, Nearer the redskins creep; With cunning disposing, With yell and with whoop (There are women shall weep!), They gather and swoop, They come like a flood, Maddened with blood, They shriek, plying the knife (Was there one begged for his life?), Where but a moment ago Stood serried and sternly the foe, Now fallen, mangled below.

Down the Little Big Horn (Tramp of the hoof, champ of the bit), A single steed in the morn, Comanche, seven times hit, Comes to the river to drink; Lists for the sabre's clink, Lists for the voice of his master (O glorious disaster!), Comes, sniffing the air, Gazing, lifts his head, But his master lies dead. (Who but the dead were there?) But stay, what was the muster? Two hundred and sixty-two (Two thousand and more the Sioux!) Went into the fight with Custer, Went out of the fight with Custer; For never a man can say, "I rode with Custer that day--" Went out like a taper, Blown by a sudden vapor, Went out at a breath, True to the death!

FRANCIS BROOKS.

LITTLE BIG HORN

[June 25, 1876]

Beside the lone river, That idly lay dreaming, Flashed sudden the gleaming Of sabre and gun In the light of the sun As over the hillside the soldiers came streaming.

One peal of the bugle In stillness unbroken That sounded a token Of soul-stirring strife, Savage war to the knife, Then silence that seemed like defiance unspoken.

But out of an ambush Came warriors riding, Swift ponies bestriding, Shook rattles and shells, With a discord of yells. That fired the hearts of their comrades in hiding.

Then fierce on the wigwams The soldiers descended, And madly were blended, The red man and white In a hand-to-hand fight, With the Indian village assailed and defended.

And there through the passage Of battle-torn spaces, From dark lurking-places, With blood-curdling cry And their knives held on high, Rushed Amazon women with wild, painted faces.

Then swung the keen sabres And flashed the sure rifles Their message that stifles The shout in red throats, While the reckless blue-coats Laughed on 'mid the fray as men laugh over trifles.

Grim cavalry troopers Unshorn and unshaven, And never a craven In ambuscade caught, How like demons they fought Round the knoll on the prairie that marked their last haven.

But the Sioux circled nearer The shrill war-whoop crying, And death-hail was flying, Yet still they fought on Till the last shot was gone, And all that remained were the dead and the dying.

A song for their death, and No black plumes of sorrow, This recompense borrow, Like heroes they died Man to man--side by side; We lost them to-day, we shall meet them to-morrow.

And on the lone river, Has faded the seeming Of bright armor gleaming, But there by the shore With the ghosts of no-more The shades of the dead through the ages lie dreaming.

ERNEST MCGAFFEY.

CUSTER'S LAST CHARGE

[June 25, 1876]

Dead! Is it possible? He, the bold rider, Custer, our hero, the first in the fight, Charming the bullets of yore to fly wider, Far from our battle-king's ringlets of light! Dead, our young chieftain, and dead, all forsaken! No one to tell us the way of his fall! Slain in the desert, and never to waken, Never, not even to victory's call!

Proud for his fame that last day that he met them! All the night long he had been on their track, Scorning their traps and the men that had set them, Wild for a charge that should never give back. There on the hilltop he halted and saw them,-- Lodges all loosened and ready to fly; Hurrying scouts with the tidings to awe them, Told of his coming before he was nigh.

All the wide valley was full of their forces, Gathered to cover the lodges' retreat!-- Warriors running in haste to their horses, Thousands of enemies close to his feet! Down in the valleys the ages had hollowed, There lay the Sitting Bull's camp for a prey! Numbers! What recked he? What recked those who followed-- Men who had fought ten to one ere that day?

Out swept the squadrons, the fated three hundred, Into the battle-line steady and full; Then down the hillside exultingly thundered, Into the hordes of the old Sitting Bull! Wild Ogalallah, Arapahoe, Cheyenne, Wild Horse's braves, and the rest of their crew, Shrank from that charge like a herd from a lion,-- Then closed around, the grim horde of wild Sioux!

Right to their centre he charged, and then facing-- Hark to those yells! and around them, O see! Over the hilltops the Indians come racing, Coming as fast as the waves of the sea! Red was the circle of fire around them; No hope of victory, no ray of light, Shot through that terrible black cloud without them, Brooding in death over Custer's last fight.

Then did he blench? Did he die like a craven, Begging those torturing fiends for his life? Was there a soldier who carried the Seven Flinched like a coward or fled from the strife? No, by the blood of our Custer, no quailing! There in the midst of the Indians they close, Hemmed in by thousands, but ever assailing, Fighting like tigers, all 'bayed amid foes!

Thicker and thicker the bullets came singing; Down go the horses and riders and all; Swiftly the warriors round them were ringing, Circling like buzzards awaiting their fall. See the wild steeds of the mountain and prairie, Savage eyes gleaming from forests of mane; Quivering lances with pennons so airy, War-painted warriors charging amain.

Backward, again and again, they were driven, Shrinking to close with the lost little band; Never a cap that had worn the bright Seven Bowed till its wearer was dead on the strand. Closer and closer the death circle growing, Ever the leader's voice, clarion clear, Rang out his words of encouragement glowing, "We can but die once, boys,--we'll sell our lives dear!"

Dearly they sold them like Berserkers raging, Facing the death that encircled them round; Death's bitter pangs by their vengeance assuaging, Marking their tracks by their dead on the ground. Comrades, our children shall yet tell their story,-- Custer's last charge on the old Sitting Bull; And ages shall swear that the cup of his glory Needed but that death to render it full.

FREDERICK WHITTAKER.

CUSTER

[June 25, 1876]

What! shall that sudden blade Leap out no more? No more thy hand be laid Upon the sword-hilt smiting sore? O for another such The charger's rein to clutch,-- One equal voice to summon victory, Sounding thy battle-cry, Brave darling of the soldiers' choice! Would there were one more voice!

O gallant charge, too bold! O fierce, imperious greed To pierce the clouds that in their darkness hold Slaughter of man and steed! Now, stark and cold, Among thy fallen braves thou liest, And even with thy blood defiest The wolfish foe: But ah, thou liest low, And all our birthday song is hushed indeed!

Young lion of the plain, Thou of the tawny mane! Hotly the soldiers' hearts shall beat, Their mouths thy death repeat, Their vengeance seek the trail again Where thy red doomsmen be; But on the charge no more shall stream Thy hair,--no more thy sabre gleam,-- No more ring out thy battle-shout, Thy cry of victory!

Not when a hero falls The sound a world appalls: For while we plant his cross There is a glory, even in the loss: But when some craven heart From honor dares to part, Then, then, the groan, the blanching cheek, And men in whispers speak, Nor kith nor country dare reclaim From the black depths his name.

Thou, wild young warrior, rest, By all the prairie winds caressed! Swift was thy dying pang; Even as the war-cry rang Thy deathless spirit mounted high And sought Columbia's sky:-- There, to the northward far, Shines a new star, And from it blazes down The light of thy renown!

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

July 10, 1876.

The Indians were led by Rain-in-the-Face. The year before, he had been arrested by Captain Tom Custer at Standing Rock, and had threatened to eat the latter's heart. The Captain was among the killed, and Rain-in-the-Face is said to have made good his threat. Mr. Longfellow is mistaken in saying that Colonel George Custer was thus mutilated. His body was not disfigured in any way.

THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE

[June 25, 1876]

In that desolate land and lone, Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone Roar down their mountain path, By their fires the Sioux Chiefs Muttered their woes and griefs And the menace of their wrath.

"Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face, "Revenge upon all the race Of the White Chief with yellow hair!" And the mountains dark and high From their crags reëchoed the cry Of his anger and despair.

In the meadow, spreading wide By woodland and river-side The Indian village stood; All was silent as a dream, Save the rushing of the stream And the blue-jay in the wood.

In his war paint and his beads, Like a bison among the reeds, In ambush the Sitting Bull Lay with three thousand braves Crouched in the clefts and caves, Savage, unmerciful!

Into the fatal snare The White Chief with yellow hair And his three hundred men Dashed headlong, sword in hand; But of that gallant band Not one returned again.

The sudden darkness of death Overwhelmed them like the breath And smoke of a furnace fire: By the river's bank, and between The rocks of the ravine, They lay in their bloody attire.

But the foemen fled in the night, And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight, Uplifted high in air As a ghastly trophy, bore The brave heart, that beat no more, Of the White Chief with yellow hair.

Whose was the right and the wrong? Sing it, O funeral song, With a voice that is full of tears, And say that our broken faith Wrought all this ruin and scathe, In the Year of a Hundred Years.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

One survivor there was, and only one, Comanche, the horse ridden by Captain Miles Keogh. He was found several miles from the battlefield, and had been wounded seven times. By order of the Secretary of War, a soldier was detailed to take care of him as long as he lived, and no one was ever afterwards permitted to ride him.

MILES KEOGH'S HORSE

On the bluff of the Little Big-Horn, At the close of a woful day, Custer and his Three Hundred In death and silence lay.

Three Hundred to Three Thousand! They had bravely fought and bled; For such is the will of Congress When the White man meets the Red.

The White men are ten millions, The thriftiest under the sun; The Reds are fifty thousand, And warriors every one.

So Custer and all his fighting men Lay under the evening skies, Staring up at the tranquil heaven With wide, accusing eyes.

And of all that stood at noonday In that fiery scorpion ring, Miles Keogh's horse at evening Was the only living thing.

Alone from that field of slaughter, Where lay the three hundred slain, The horse Comanche wandered, With Keogh's blood on his mane.

And Sturgis issued this order, Which future times shall read, While the love and honor of comrades Are the soul of the soldier's creed.

He said-- _Let the horse Comanche Henceforth till he shall die, Be kindly cherished and cared for By the Seventh Cavalry._

_He shall do no labor; he never shall know The touch of spur or rein; Nor shall his back be ever crossed By living rider again._

_And at regimental formation Of the Seventh Cavalry, Comanche draped in mourning and led By a trooper of Company I,_

Shall parade with the Regiment! Thus it was Commanded and thus done, By order of General Sturgis, signed By Adjutant Garlington.

Even as the sword of Custer, In his disastrous fall, Flashed out a blaze that charmed the world And glorified his pall.

This order, issued amid the gloom, That shrouds our army's name, When all foul beasts are free to rend And tear its honest fame.

Shall prove to a callous people That the sense of a soldier's worth, That the love of comrades, the honor of arms, Have not yet perished from earth.

JOHN HAY.

The government rushed a large force to the scene, and finally, after painful fighting and toilsome marches stretching over many months, the Indians were brought to terms. Rain-in-the-Face afterwards professed himself a man of peace, and in 1886 tried to enter Hampton Institute. He was killed during the Sioux outbreak in 1890.

ON THE BIG HORN

[1886]

The years are but half a score, And the war-whoop sounds no more With the blast of bugles, where Straight into a slaughter pen, With his doomed three hundred men, Rode the chief with the yellow hair.

O Hampton, down by the sea! What voice is beseeching thee For the scholar's lowliest place? Can this be the voice of him Who fought on the Big Horn's rim? Can this be Rain-in-the-Face?

His war-paint is washed away, His hands have forgotten to slay; He seeks for himself and his race The arts of peace and the lore That give to the skilled hand more Than the spoils of war and chase.

O chief of the Christ-like school! Can the zeal of thy heart grow cool When the victor scarred with fight Like a child for thy guidance craves, And the faces of hunters and braves Are turning to thee for light?

The hatchet lies overgrown With grass by the Yellowstone, Wind River and Paw of Bear; And, in sign that foes are friends, Each lodge like a peace-pipe sends Its smoke in the quiet air.

The hands that have done the wrong To right the wronged are strong, And the voice of a nation saith: "Enough of the war of swords, Enough of the lying words And shame of a broken faith!"

The hills that have watched afar The valleys ablaze with war Shall look on the tasselled corn; And the dust of the grinded grain, Instead of the blood of the slain, Shall sprinkle thy banks, Big Horn!

The Ute and the wandering Crow Shall know as the white men know, And fare as the white men fare; The pale and the red shall be brothers, One's rights shall be as another's, Home, School, and House of Prayer!

O mountains that climb to snow, O river winding below, Through meadows by war once trod, O wild, waste lands that await The harvest exceeding great, Break forth into praise of God!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

In 1886 another somewhat serious uprising took place among the Apaches, a band of hostiles taking the war-path under the chief, Geronimo. General Nelson A. Miles, after a long pursuit, succeeded in capturing them.

THE "GREY HORSE TROOP"

All alone on the hillside-- Larry an' Barry an' me; Nothin' to see but the sky an' the plain, Nothin' to see but the drivin' rain, Nothin' to see but the painted Sioux, Galloping, galloping: "Whoop--whuroo! The divil in yellow is down in the mud!" Sez Larry to Barry, "I'm losin' blood."

"Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry; "Second Dragoons!" groans Larry; Hurrah! hurrah! for Egan's Grey Troop! Whoop! ye divils--ye've got to whoop; Cheer for the troopers who die: sez I-- "Cheer for the troop that never shall die!"

All alone on the hillside-- Larry an' Barry an' me; Flat on our bellies, an' pourin' in lead-- Seven rounds left, an' the horses dead-- Barry a-cursin' at every breath; Larry beside him, as white as death; Indians galloping, galloping by, Wheelin' and squealin' like hawks in the sky!

"Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry; "Second Dragoons!" groans Larry; Hurrah! hurrah! for Egan's Grey Troop! Whoop! ye divils--ye've got to whoop; Cheer for the troopers who die: sez I-- "Cheer for the troop that never shall die!"

All alone on the hillside-- Larry an' Barry an' me; Two of us livin' and one of us dead-- Shot in the head, and God!--how he bled! "Larry's done up," sez Barry to me; "Divvy his cartridges! Quick! gimme three!" While nearer an' nearer an' plainer in view, Galloped an' galloped the murderin' Sioux.

"Cheers for the Greys!" yells Barry; "Cheer--" an' he falls on Larry. Alas! alas! for Egan's Grey Troop! The Red Sioux, hovering stoop to swoop; Two out of three lay dead, while I Cheered for the troop that never shall die.

All alone on the hillside-- Larry an' Barry an' me; An' I fired an' yelled till I lost my head, Cheerin' the livin', cheerin' the dead, Swingin' my cap, I cheered until I stumbled and fell. Then over the hill There floated a trumpeter's silvery call, An' Egan's Grey Troop galloped up, that's all.

Drink to the Greys,--an' Barry! Second Dragoons,--an' Larry! Here's a bumper to Egan's Grey Troop! Let the crape on the guidons droop; Drink to the troopers who die, while I Drink to the troop that never shall die!

ROBERT W. CHAMBERS.

Geronimo was sent to Fort Pickens, Florida, where he was kept in captivity for the remainder of his life.

GERONIMO

Beside that tent and under guard In majesty alone he stands, As some chained eagle, broken-winged, With eyes that gleam like smouldering brands,-- A savage face, streaked o'er with paint, And coal-black hair in unkempt mane, Thin, cruel lips, set rigidly,-- A red Apache Tamerlane.

As restless as the desert winds, Yet here he stands like carven stone, His raven locks by breezes moved And backward o'er his shoulders blown; Silent, yet watchful as he waits Robed in his strange, barbaric guise, While here and there go searchingly The cat-like wanderings of his eyes.

The eagle feather on his head Is dull with many a bloody stain, While darkly on his lowering brow Forever rests the mark of Cain. Have you but seen a tiger caged And sullen through his barriers glare? Mark well his human prototype, The fierce Apache fettered there.

ERNEST MCGAFFEY.

In 1889 the territory known as Oklahoma was opened to settlement, and again the Indians saw their hunting-grounds invaded by the white man, while they themselves were compelled to remove to a new reservation. Sitting Bull again advised resistance, and was killed while trying to escape arrest. A squaw of the tribe, made desperate by the removal, killed her baby and committed suicide.

THE LAST RESERVATION

Sullen and dark, in the September day, On the bank of the river They waited the boat that would bear them away From their poor homes forever.

For progress strides on, and the order had gone To these wards of the nation, "Give us land and more room," was the cry, "and move on To the next reservation."

With her babe, she looked back at the home 'neath the trees From which they were driven, Where the smoke of the last camp fire, borne on the breeze, Rose slowly toward heaven.

Behind her, fair fields, and the forest and glade, The home of her nation; Around her, the gleam of the bayonet and blade Of civilization.

Clasping close to her bosom the small dusky form, With tender caressing, She bent down, on the cheek of her babe soft and warm A mother's kiss pressing.

There's a splash in the river--the column moves on, Close-guarded and narrow, With hardly more note of the two that are gone Than the fall of a sparrow.

Only an Indian! Wretched, obscure, To refinement a stranger, And a babe, that was born, in a wigwam as poor And rude as a manger.

Moved on--to make room for the growth in the West Of a brave Christian nation, Moved on--and, thank God, forever at rest In the last reservation.

WALTER LEARNED.

That was the last of the Indian outbreaks. Although there are still more than two hundred thousand Indians in the United States, by far the greater part of them have adopted the dress and customs of the white man and are engaged in peaceful occupations. The remainder are content to live in idleness upon the government's bounty.

INDIAN NAMES

Ye say they all have pass'd away, That noble race and brave, That their light canoes have vanish'd From off the crested wave; That, 'mid the forests where they roam'd, There rings no hunter's shout; But their name is on your waters, Ye may not wash it out.

'Tis where Ontario's billow Like ocean's surge is curl'd; Where strong Niagara's thunders wake The echo of the world; Where red Missouri bringeth Rich tribute from the West, And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps On green Virginia's breast.

Ye say their conelike cabins, That cluster'd o'er the vale, Have fled away like wither'd leaves Before the autumn's gale: But their memory liveth on your hills, Their baptism on your shore; Your everlasting rivers speak Their dialect of yore.

Old Massachusetts wears it Within her lordly crown, And broad Ohio bears it 'Mid all her young renown; Connecticut hath wreathed it Where her quiet foliage waves, And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse, Through all her ancient caves.

Wachusett hides its lingering voice Within his rocky heart, And Alleghany graves its tone Throughout his lofty chart; Monadnock on his forehead hoar Doth seal the sacred trust: Your mountains build their monument, Though ye destroy their dust.

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.