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Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword;

His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:

His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel:
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Since God is marching on."

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He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.

1861.

STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY

(BY JOHN W. PALMER)

Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,
Stir up the camp-fire bright;

No matter if the canteen fails,

We'll make a roaring night.

Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
To swell the brigade's rousing song
Of "Stonewall Jackson's Way."

We see him now-the old slouched hat
Cocked o'er his eye askew;

The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,

So calm, so blunt, so true.

The "Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well:

1862.

Says he, "That 's Banks-he 's fond of shell;
Lord save his soul! we 'll give him-" well,
That's "Stonewall Jackson's Way."

Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off!
Old Blue-Light 's going to pray.
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!

Attention! it's his way.

Appealing from his native sod,

In forma pauperis to God

"Lay bare thine arm, stretch forth thy rod!

Amen!" That 's "Stonewall's Way."

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Whom, tho' the red Destruction lower,
No peril can appal.

We know how he struck M'Clellan
In his trebly guarded lines,

And Bully Pope sent flying

Through the dim Manassas pines.

All honour to the Chieftain

With the calm undaunted mien,
The honest old Virginia blood,

And the great broad soul serene!
Though all the hounds of Ruin howl,

These nations shall be free,

For the Red-Cross flag is borne aloft
By the stalwart hand of Lee.

The Chieftain of our Chieftains,

Virginia claims her son;

But for the whole great Southern race
His deeds have glory won:

For the blood of "Light Horse Harry"

Burns in a larger soul,

As true to the call of honour

As the needle to the pole.

As true! And who but loves him,

The man to us so dear,

Whom soil of base detraction

Has never dared come near?

Who keeps his lordly path unmoved
Through calm or storm, and hears
Even now the calm Historic Voice
From out the future years!

1862.

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR

(BY M. W. M.)

O'ercome with weariness and care,

The war-worn veteran lay
On the green turf of his native land,
And slumbered by the way.

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