On the brow of yonder hill, 'Long the foot-path here ascending, Each brow with firm resolve is knit; Each eye with battle-zeal is lit. From the van! Every man Gladly hears the order "Forward! Vengeance be your fearful watchword! Your battle-cry!" Now may the God of battles shield Our forces on the bloody field! Hark! The musket's deadly volley "Up, my men! No flinching! Rally 'Neath the old flag floating there! Forward! Steady! Muskets ready! Not a shot till on the walls Of yonder battery, 'mid the balls That strew the field with dead! Then let loose your sword-blades, glimmering, In the face of cannon deadly, To the musket's martial medley, Lock-step, quick-step, but they now Cheering, shouting, reach the brow Of the hill! Stripes and stars, Stars and bars, Mingle folds, so close the battle. Listen now! The hoarse death-rattle! Cursing, groaning, Praying, moaning, See them writhe in death's cold shiver, See! they have the rebel pennon ! The patriot band Struggles with the traitor foe, And streams of crimson heart's-blood flow. Their phalnax breaks-they flee! They flee! The air resounds with cheer on cheer, And joyful shouts of "Victory !" The fight is o'er-the field is won, Cannon and sword their work have done. The golden West Lights up the exit of departing day, And o'er the battered walls the sun's last ray A moment rests Upon "old glory," true, Our dear red, white and blue. Long may it wave o'er every foot of sod Sacred to Justice, Liberty and God! Amid the desolation drear, And in the war's alarm, Is heard the voice of fervent prayer, The suppliants raise their toil-worn bands, To Him who notes the sparrow's fall, And helps the helpless poor. "Oh God of Freedom! Hear our earnest prayer, These clanking chains, the shriek of black Despair Exert Thy power to set us free! Hasten the hour of liberty! Oh heat the furnace of Thy vengeful ire, And melt the links of slavery in its fire!" Up to the heaven of the Eternal One, A gracious Father wipes away their tears, An armored knight against the dragon fierce, A heaven-born Lincoln 'gainst a hell-born crime. He saw the lowering clouds o'erhead, He grasped the pen with eager hand- "In '63, upon the New Year's morn, The chains of Slavery shall rive in twain, And every mortal, free and equal born, Shall free and equal walk the earth again!" Freedom's joyous bell is ringing, Angel voices praise are singing; And the oppressed are shouting "Free, Loud oppression's bell is tolling, On the tidings glad are rolling, And hills and vales are echoing "Free, "Free, forever free!" Loud hallelujahs rend the air; Hosanna! Thanks vesper breezes heavenward bear; Glory to God! To God the praise! Four million freemen voices raise To swell the loud hosanna! VOL. XXXII. The grass-grown streets resound at last, The cannon's gaping mouth is dumb; But bells are tolling and mourners are weeping, Spread thy verdure, lovely Nature, Pour thy sunshine on the mound, 2 Ir very commonly happens that popular opinion concerning a subject, establishes itself upon popular rumor. Especially is this the case with regard to literature and the arts. Man will seldom be careful to oppose the general sentiment as to this work of fiction, or that piece of statuary. Rather will be receive that sentiment as his own, and thereby save himself the trouble of "explaining his position." And while one man thus thinks and acts, the opinion, the fame, the rumor issues from ten thousand mouths, is proclaimed through the world, and is unanimously accepted as finally settling the mooted point. So a volume is published, sent abroad, and, as chance wills it, praised or condemned, and that for all future time. These reflections stole upon us after reading Chaucer's “Clerk's Tale," in which the ever-famous Griselda makes her first and only appearance on the great stage. Having finished the story, we naturally formed an opinion thereof, and this opinion, to our utter surprise, seemed to disagree entirely with the popular one. Everywhere we had been accustomed to hear naught but praise bestowed upon the fair heroine. We had continually heard of the "exquisite story of Griselda," "the patient Griselda," and so forth. The plot is universally denominated "perfect," "beautiful," and the like. Now, following, doubtless, a wrong line of reasoning, we had arrived at a conclusion that rendered necessary, for the expression of our idea of the plot, a set of adjectives and epithets entirely different from that employed above. And this conclusion, not without much fear and trembling, we herewith submit. First, let us rehearse the plot. The clerk of Oxford, being requested to produce a story, begins the recital of one which he claims to have learned from Petrarch, that ancient bard of Italy. The plot of the story is simple and singular; from its singularity it becomes interesting. A Marquis has for a long time been the object of his subjects' love and admiration. The good people are dissatisfied with their lord in only one particular, and that is his solitary mode of life. He has no wife, nor is he seemingly desirous of having one. Thereat the burgesses are greatly exercised, fearing that, when their patron shall die, they may not be treated so kindly by the succeeding Marquis. They therefore importune Walter, the present incumbent, to marry. He consents to obey their whim, and accordingly selects Griselda, a poor but beautiful maiden, who lived not far from the palace, to fill the position of Marchioness. He mentions his choice to Griselda the daughter, and Janicola the father, who present no objections to the plan. She accepts the proffered hand and fortune, promising to obey Walter "in all things, as a good wife should." Shortly afterwards they are married with great display of pomp and royal magnificence. They then lived together most happily for a time. At length, having found that his wife is everything that could be desired,-that she is faithful, kind, even-tempered and dutiful, the Marquis is seized with an unnatural desire to tempt her. He wishes to see whether she will preserve her equanimity when covered with the cloud of adversity. He accordingly, under a shallow pretext, causes her child to be conveyed to a distant town, and causes her to believe that he has ordered it to be slain. This she believes, but makes no indignant protest against the inhuman proceeding, saying only that she is in duty bound to will as he wills, and desiring only that the child may be decently interred. Her second child is treated in the same manner, and still is Griselda all submission and humility. As if exasperated by her very meekness, Walter concocts still another scheme for overthrowing his wife. He falsely declares that his people are displeased with her, and that the Pope has commanded him to take a new companion, in order that no strife may spring up between Marquis and subjects. This he proceeds to do, while Griselda meekly, almost cheerfully, leaves the palace, and, clothed meanly and insufficiently, returns to her poor father. All this she does through love for her false and brutal husband. Finally it appears that the Marquis' intended is, in fact, his daughter, kept in concealment by him for twelve years, and that his second child, a son, is still alive. The husband having accomplished his design, relents. Then comes the announce ment to Griselda of the children's safety, the confession by Walter of his deception, and the reinstating of Griselda in her former position. Now we find little beauty in the plot, taken as a plot. In our humble opinion, beauty dwells not in the unnatural and the cruel. And |