THE ORPHAN BRIGADE.

Eighteen hundred and sixty-one: There in the echo of Sumter's gun Marches the host of the Orphan Brigade, Lit by their banners, in hope's best arrayed. Five thousand strong, never legion hath borne Might as this bears it forth in that morn: Hastings and Crecy, Naseby, Dunbar, Cowpens and Yorktown, Thousand Years' War, Is writ on their hearts as onward afar They shout to the roar of their drums. Eighteen hundred and sixty-two: Well have they paid to the earth its due. Close up, steady! the half are yet here And all of the might, for the living bear The dead in their hearts over Shiloh's field— Rich, O God, is thy harvest's yield! Where faith swings the sickle, trust binds the sheaves, To the roll of the surging drums. Eighteen hundred and sixty-three: Barring Sherman's march to the sea— Shorn to a thousand; face to the foe Back, ever back, but stubborn and slow. Nineteen hundred wounds they take In that service of Hell, yet the hills they shake With the roar of their charge as onward they go To the roar of their throbbing drums. Eighteen hundred and sixty-four: Their banners are tattered, and scarce twelve score, Battered and wearied and seared and old, Stay by the staves where the Orphans hold Firm as a rock when the surges break— Shield of a land where men die for His sake, For the sake of the brothers whom they have laid low, To the roll of their muffled drums. Eighteen hundred and sixty-five: The Devil is dead and the Lord is alive, In the earth that springs where the heroes sleep, And in love new born where the stricken weep. That legion hath marched past the setting of sun: Beaten? nay, victors: the realms they have won Are the hearts of men who forever shall hear The throb of their far-off drums.