Among the foe, with that high scorn He hurl'd the broken hilt, and drew They hew'd the hauberk from his breast, They hew'd the hands from off his limbs; Clasping the standard to his heart, OUR OUR DEFENDERS. flag on the land, and our flag on the Casting his sentinel glances afar; Though bearing the olive-branch, Still in his talons staunch Grasping the bolts of the thunders of war! ocean, Hark to the sound! There's a foe on our border- Of scythe and of sickle keen; The axe sleeps in peace by the tree it would mar; Veteran and youth are out, Swelling the battle-shout, Grasping the bolts of the thunders of war! Our brave mountain eagles swoop from their eyrie, Swift as Niagara pours, They march, and their tread wakes the earth with its jar; Under the Stripes and Stars, Each with the soul of Mars, Grasping the bolts of the thunders of war! Spite of the sword or assassin's stiletto, While throbs a heart in the breast of the brave, Echoing the Northern lakes, And ocean replies unto ocean afar, While there's a patriot hand Grasping the bolts of the thunders of war! A shudder shot through every vein— No hold had he above, below — To that far height none dared to go- We gazed, but not a man could speak! In groups, with pallid brow and cheek, As riveted unto the spot Stood officers and crew. The father came on deck: he gasped, "Jump, far out, boy, into the wave! Jump, or I fire," he said; "That only chance your life can save: Jump, jump, boy!" He-obeyed. He sank-he rose - he lived - he moved- On board we hailed the lad beloved, His father drew, in silent joy, Those wet arms round his neck, And folded to his heart his boy Then fainted on the deck. THE SLEEPING SENTINEL. The incidents here woven into verse relate to William Scott, a young soldier from the State of Vermont, who, while on duty as a sentinel at night, fell asleep, and, having been condemned to die, was pardoned by the President. They form a brief record of his humble life at home and in the field, and of his glorious death. WAS in the sultry summer-time, as War's red records show, When patriot armies rose to meet a fratricidal foeWhen, from the North and East and West, like the upheaving sea, Swept forth Columbia's sons, to make our country truly free. Within a prison's dismal walls, where shadows veil'd decay, He waited but the appointed hour to die a culprit's death. Yet, but a few brief weeks before, untroubled with a care, He roam'd at will, and freely drew his native mountain airWhere sparkling streams leap mossy rocks, from many a woodland font, And waving elms and grassy slopes give beauty to Vermont! Where, dwelling in an humble cot, a tiller of the soil, Then left he all: a few fond tears, by firmness half conceal'd, Whose fruits are garner'd in the grave, whose husbandman is Without a murmur, he endured a service new and hard; But, wearied with a toilsome march, it chanced one night, on guard, He sank exhausted at his post, and the gray morning found So, in the silence of the night, aweary, on the sod Sank the disciples, watching near the suffering Son of God; But God is love-and finite minds can faintly comprehend How gentle Mercy, in His rule, may with stern Justice blend; And this poor soldier, seized and bound, found none to justify, While War's inexorable law decreed that he must die. 'Twas night. In a secluded room, with measured tread, and slow, A statesman of commanding mien paced gravely to and fro: The woes of thirty millions fill'd his burden'd heart with grief; 'Twas morning. On a tented field, and through the heated haze, Flash'd back, from lines of burnished arms, the sun's effulgent blaze; While, from a sombre prison-house, seen slowly to emerge, And in the midst, with faltering step, and pale and anxious face, In manacles, between two guards, a soldier had his place: A youth-led out to die; and yet, it was not death, but shame, That smote his gallant heart with dread, and shook his manly frame! Still on, before the marshall'd ranks, the train pursued its way Up to the designated spot, whereon a coffin lay |