’T is midnight: through my troubled dreamLoud wails the tempest’s cry;Before the gale, with tattered sail,A ship goes plunging by.What name? Where bound?—The rocks aroundRepeat the loud halloo.—The good ship Union, Southward bound:God help her and her crew!And is the old flag flying stillThat o’er your fathers flew,With bands of white and rosy light,And field of starry blue?—Ay! look aloft! its folds full oftHave braved the roaring blast,And still shall fly when from the skyThis black typhoon has past!Speak, pilot of the storm-tost bark!May I thy peril share?—O landsman, these are fearful seasThe brave alone may dare!—Nay, ruler of the rebel deep,What matters wind or wave?The rocks that wreck your reeling deckWill leave me nought to save!O landsman, art thou false or true?What sign hast thou to show?—The crimson stains from loyal veinsThat hold my heart-blood’s flow!—Enough! what more shall honor claim?I know the sacred sign;Above thy head our flag shall spread,Our ocean path be thine!The bark sails on; the Pilgrim’s CapeLies low along her lee,Whose headland crooks its anchor-flukesTo lock the shore and sea.No treason here! it cost too dearTo win this barren realm!And true and free the hands must beThat hold the whaler’s helm!Still on! Manhattan’s narrowing bayNo Rebel cruiser scars;Her waters feel no pirate’s keelThat flaunts the fallen stars!—But watch the light on yonder height,—Ay, pilot, have a care!Some lingering cloud in mist may shroudThe capes of Delaware!Say, pilot, what this fort may be,Whose sentinels look downFrom moated walls that show the seaTheir deep embrasures’ frown?The Rebel host claims all the coast,But these are friends, we know,Whose footprints spoil the “sacred soil,”And this is?—Fort Monroe!The breakers roar,--how bears the shore?--The traitorous wreckers' handsHave quenched the blaze that poured its raysAlong the Hatteras sands.--Ha! say not so! I see its glow!Again the shoals displayThe beacon light that shines by night,The Union Stars by day!The good ship flies to milder skies,The wave more gently flows,The softening breeze wafts o’er the seasThe breath of Beaufort’s rose.“What fold is this the sweet winds kiss,Fair-striped and many-starred,Whose shadow palls these orphaned walls,The twins of Beauregard?“What! heard you not Port Royal’s doom?How the black war-ships cameAnd turned the Beaufort roses’ bloomTo redder wreaths of flame?How from Rebellion’s broken reedWe saw his emblem fall,As soon his cursèd poison-weedShall drop from Sumter’s wall?On! on! Pulaski’s iron hailFalls harmless on Tybee!Her topsails feel the freshening gale,She strikes the open sea;She rounds the point, she threads the keysThat guard the Land of Flowers,And rides at last where firm and fastHer own Gibraltar towers!The good ship Union’s voyage is o’er,At anchor safe she swings,And loud and clear with cheer on cheerHer joyous welcome rings:Hurrah! Hurrah! it shakes the wave,It thunders on the shore,—One flag, one land, one heart, one hand,One Nation, evermore!
’T is midnight: through my troubled dreamLoud wails the tempest’s cry;Before the gale, with tattered sail,A ship goes plunging by.What name? Where bound?—The rocks aroundRepeat the loud halloo.—The good ship Union, Southward bound:God help her and her crew!
’T is midnight: through my troubled dream
Loud wails the tempest’s cry;
Before the gale, with tattered sail,
A ship goes plunging by.
What name? Where bound?—The rocks around
Repeat the loud halloo.
—The good ship Union, Southward bound:
God help her and her crew!
And is the old flag flying stillThat o’er your fathers flew,With bands of white and rosy light,And field of starry blue?—Ay! look aloft! its folds full oftHave braved the roaring blast,And still shall fly when from the skyThis black typhoon has past!
And is the old flag flying still
That o’er your fathers flew,
With bands of white and rosy light,
And field of starry blue?
—Ay! look aloft! its folds full oft
Have braved the roaring blast,
And still shall fly when from the sky
This black typhoon has past!
Speak, pilot of the storm-tost bark!May I thy peril share?—O landsman, these are fearful seasThe brave alone may dare!—Nay, ruler of the rebel deep,What matters wind or wave?The rocks that wreck your reeling deckWill leave me nought to save!
Speak, pilot of the storm-tost bark!
May I thy peril share?
—O landsman, these are fearful seas
The brave alone may dare!
—Nay, ruler of the rebel deep,
What matters wind or wave?
The rocks that wreck your reeling deck
Will leave me nought to save!
O landsman, art thou false or true?What sign hast thou to show?—The crimson stains from loyal veinsThat hold my heart-blood’s flow!—Enough! what more shall honor claim?I know the sacred sign;Above thy head our flag shall spread,Our ocean path be thine!
O landsman, art thou false or true?
What sign hast thou to show?
—The crimson stains from loyal veins
That hold my heart-blood’s flow!
—Enough! what more shall honor claim?
I know the sacred sign;
Above thy head our flag shall spread,
Our ocean path be thine!
The bark sails on; the Pilgrim’s CapeLies low along her lee,Whose headland crooks its anchor-flukesTo lock the shore and sea.No treason here! it cost too dearTo win this barren realm!And true and free the hands must beThat hold the whaler’s helm!
The bark sails on; the Pilgrim’s Cape
Lies low along her lee,
Whose headland crooks its anchor-flukes
To lock the shore and sea.
No treason here! it cost too dear
To win this barren realm!
And true and free the hands must be
That hold the whaler’s helm!
Still on! Manhattan’s narrowing bayNo Rebel cruiser scars;Her waters feel no pirate’s keelThat flaunts the fallen stars!—But watch the light on yonder height,—Ay, pilot, have a care!Some lingering cloud in mist may shroudThe capes of Delaware!
Still on! Manhattan’s narrowing bay
No Rebel cruiser scars;
Her waters feel no pirate’s keel
That flaunts the fallen stars!
—But watch the light on yonder height,—
Ay, pilot, have a care!
Some lingering cloud in mist may shroud
The capes of Delaware!
Say, pilot, what this fort may be,Whose sentinels look downFrom moated walls that show the seaTheir deep embrasures’ frown?The Rebel host claims all the coast,But these are friends, we know,Whose footprints spoil the “sacred soil,”And this is?—Fort Monroe!
Say, pilot, what this fort may be,
Whose sentinels look down
From moated walls that show the sea
Their deep embrasures’ frown?
The Rebel host claims all the coast,
But these are friends, we know,
Whose footprints spoil the “sacred soil,”
And this is?—Fort Monroe!
The breakers roar,--how bears the shore?--The traitorous wreckers' handsHave quenched the blaze that poured its raysAlong the Hatteras sands.--Ha! say not so! I see its glow!Again the shoals displayThe beacon light that shines by night,The Union Stars by day!
The breakers roar,--how bears the shore?
--The traitorous wreckers' hands
Have quenched the blaze that poured its rays
Along the Hatteras sands.
--Ha! say not so! I see its glow!
Again the shoals display
The beacon light that shines by night,
The Union Stars by day!
The good ship flies to milder skies,The wave more gently flows,The softening breeze wafts o’er the seasThe breath of Beaufort’s rose.“What fold is this the sweet winds kiss,Fair-striped and many-starred,Whose shadow palls these orphaned walls,The twins of Beauregard?
The good ship flies to milder skies,
The wave more gently flows,
The softening breeze wafts o’er the seas
The breath of Beaufort’s rose.
“What fold is this the sweet winds kiss,
Fair-striped and many-starred,
Whose shadow palls these orphaned walls,
The twins of Beauregard?
“What! heard you not Port Royal’s doom?How the black war-ships cameAnd turned the Beaufort roses’ bloomTo redder wreaths of flame?How from Rebellion’s broken reedWe saw his emblem fall,As soon his cursèd poison-weedShall drop from Sumter’s wall?
“What! heard you not Port Royal’s doom?
How the black war-ships came
And turned the Beaufort roses’ bloom
To redder wreaths of flame?
How from Rebellion’s broken reed
We saw his emblem fall,
As soon his cursèd poison-weed
Shall drop from Sumter’s wall?
On! on! Pulaski’s iron hailFalls harmless on Tybee!Her topsails feel the freshening gale,She strikes the open sea;She rounds the point, she threads the keysThat guard the Land of Flowers,And rides at last where firm and fastHer own Gibraltar towers!
On! on! Pulaski’s iron hail
Falls harmless on Tybee!
Her topsails feel the freshening gale,
She strikes the open sea;
She rounds the point, she threads the keys
That guard the Land of Flowers,
And rides at last where firm and fast
Her own Gibraltar towers!
The good ship Union’s voyage is o’er,At anchor safe she swings,And loud and clear with cheer on cheerHer joyous welcome rings:Hurrah! Hurrah! it shakes the wave,It thunders on the shore,—One flag, one land, one heart, one hand,One Nation, evermore!
The good ship Union’s voyage is o’er,
At anchor safe she swings,
And loud and clear with cheer on cheer
Her joyous welcome rings:
Hurrah! Hurrah! it shakes the wave,
It thunders on the shore,—
One flag, one land, one heart, one hand,
One Nation, evermore!
Return to Table of Contents
For Better, for Worse. A Story from “Temple Bar” and “Tales of the Day.” Complete. Boston. T.O.H.P. Burnham. 8vo. paper. pp. 165. 25 cts.
Prayers. By Theodore Parker. Boston. Walker, Wise, & Co. 16mo. pp. 200. 75 cts.
Lilliesleaf: being a Concluding Series of Passages in the Life of Mrs. Margaret Maitland, of Sunnyside. Written by Herself. Boston. T.O.H.P. Burnham. 16mo. pp. 398. $1.00.
The Seven Sons of Mammon. By George Augustus Sala, Author of “A Journey due North,” etc. Boston. T.O.H.P. Burnham. 8vo. paper, pp. 212. 50 cts.
Pilgrims of Fashion. A Novel. By Kinanan Cornwallis. New York. Harper & Brothers. 12mo. pp. xvi., 337. $1.00.
Religio Medici, A Letter to a Friend, Christian Morals, Urn-Burial, and other Papers. By Sir Thomas Browne, Kt., M.D. Boston. Ticknor & Fields. 16mo. $1.50.
The Magnet Stories for Summer Days and Winter Nights. By the Author of “A Trap to Catch a Sunbeam,” etc. With Illustrations. Boston. J. Munroe & Co. 16mo. pp. 296. 75 cts.
Report of a Committee of the Boston Society for Medical Improvement, on the Alleged Dangers which accompany the Inhalation of the Vapor of Sulphuric Ether. Boston. David Clapp. 8vo. paper. pp. 36. 25 cts.
Montrose, and other Biographical Sketches. Boston. Soule & Williams. 16mo. pp. 400. $1.00.
Notice to Quit. By W.G. Wills, Author of “Life’s Foreshadowings.” New York. Harper & Brothers. 8vo. paper. pp. 156. 50 cts.
Tales of a Grandfather. History of Scotland. By Sir Walter Scott, Bart. With Notes. In Six Volumes. Vols. III., IV., V., and VI. Boston. Ticknor & Fields. 16mo. pp. 291; 298; viii., 283; viii., 310. per vol., 75 cts.
Ceremonies at the Dedication of the Bigelow Monument, Worcester, Massachusetts, April 19, 1861. Boston. Printed by John Wilson & Son. 8vo. paper. pp. 37. 25 cts.
Streaks of Light; or, Fifty-Two Facts from the Bible for the Fifty-Two Sundays of the Year. By the Author of “More about Jesus,” “Peep of Day,” etc. New York. Harper & Brothers. 16mo. pp. 344. 75 cts.
Spare Hours. By John Brown, M.D. Boston. Ticknor & Fields. 16mo. pp. 458. $1.50.
Cheap Cotton by Free Labor. By a Cotton-Manufacturer. Second Edition. Boston. A. Williams & Co. 8vo. paper. pp. 52. 12 cts.
Manual for Heavy Artillery, for the Use of Volunteers. New York. D. Van Nostrand. 16mo. pp. 72. 75 cts.
Providence in War. A Thanksgiving Discourse, delivered at the Thirteenth-Street Presbyterian Church, New York, November 28, 1861. By the Rev. S.D. Burchard, D.D. New York. E.D. Barker. 16mo. paper. pp. 24. 10 cts.
Thanksgiving. A Sermon preached in the Arch-Street Presbyterian Church, Philadelphia, on Thursday, November 28, 1861. By Charles Wadsworth. Philadelphia. T.B. Peterson & Brothers. 8vo. paper. pp. 32. 15 cts.
War and Emancipation. A Thanksgiving Sermon, preached in the Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, N.Y., on Thursday, November 28, 1861. By Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. Philadelphia. T.B. Peterson & Brothers. 8vo. paper. pp. 31. 15 cts.
Schomburg.(return)Governor Hincks.(return)B.T. Young’s Letter of January 12th, 1858, and other letters from planters, published in theNational Era, August, 1858.(return)Letter from the Bishop of Barbadoes, February 23, 1858. It appears in the same letter that the church-attendants have increased from 5,000 in 1825 to 28,000 in 1853.(return)Cochin’sL’Abolition de l’Esclavage.(return)Sewell’sOrdeal of Free Labor, etc.(return)Breen.(return)Sewell.(return)Burnley’sTrinidad.(return)Cochin’s tables give the sugar export of Trinidad as follows: Under slavery, (1831-34,) 316,338 cwt.; during apprenticeship, (1835-38,) 295,787 cwt.; under free labor, (1839-45,) 292,023 cwt.; in 1846, 353,293 cwt.; in 1847, 393,537 cwt.(return)Sewell’sOrdeal of Free Labor, etc.(return)Complete Manual for Young Sportsmen.(return)The belief in the existence of the Fountain of Youth belongs to many countries and to all times. Not to mention other instances, Herodotus, in his third book, (23,) tells of a fountain of the kind which was possessed by “the long-lived Ethiopians,” and which caused the bather’s flesh to become sleek and glossy, and sent forth an odor like that of violets. Peter Martyr, to whom we owe so many lively pictures of the effect on the European mind of the discovery of America and its consequences, wrote to Leo X. of the marvellous fountain which was sought by Ponce de Leon, and in terms that leave no doubt that he was well inclined to place considerable faith in the truth of the common story. The clever Pope probably believed as much of it as he did of the New Testament. Peter Martyr does not, we think, mention the Ethiopian fountain, of which, as he was a good scholar, and that was the age of the revival of classic learning, he must have read.(return)Saw.(return)Fishermen.(return)Seals.(return)A dull glare on the horizon, from the immense masses of ice.(return)A young seal.(return)Technical word for the crying of the seals.(return)Broken ice, between large cakes, or against the shore.(return)Snow in water, not yet frozen, but looking like the white ice.(return)To stop.(return)Mittens.(return)Skinned.(return)A rustic euphemism for the American variety of theMephitis.—H.W.(return)Sir Henry Vane the Younger, being then twenty-three years of age, arrived in Boston in 1635, was chosen governor of the Colony in 1636, and returned to England the next year. His house stood, within the recollection of the writer, on what is now Tremont Street, on a spot opposite the Museum.(return)Thiers, Tome II., p. 337.(return)