BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC

By JULIA WARD HOWE

  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 have 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.”

  He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
  He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat: 
  O, 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.

[Illustration]

“‘STONEWALL’ JACKSON’S WAY”

By J. W. PALMER

NOTE.—­Thomas J. Jackson, the great Confederate general, better known as “Stonewall” Jackson, was loved and admired by his men not only for his military ability, but for his personal virtues, and even for his personal peculiarities as well.  He was a deeply religious man, and never began a battle without prayer or failed to give public thanks to God for a victory.

While he believed that the people through whose land he was passing, and indeed all non-combatants, should be guarded as far as possible from the evil results of war, he showed no compassion for the enemies sent against him, and pushed the battle against them with all his might.  His death in 1863 was a great loss to the Confederate cause.

  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.”

[Illustration:  Thomas J ("Stonewall”) Jackson 1824-1863]

  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;
  Says he, “That’s Banks[1]—­he’s fond of shell,
  Lord save his soul!  We’ll give him”—­well,
  That’s “‘Stonewall’ Jackson’s way.”

[Footnote 1:  Nathaniel Prentiss Banks was a Federal general who was pitted against Jackson in several engagements.]