She never faltered for the right, Nor ever will hereafter; Fling up her name with all your might, Shake roof-tree and shake rafter! But of old deeds she need not brag, How she broke sword and fetter; Fling out again the old striped flag! She'll do yet more and better. In peace her sails fleck all the seas, Her mills shake every river; And where are scenes so fair as these God and her true hands give her? Her claim in war who seek to rob? All others come in later;-- Hers first it is to front the mob, The tyrant, and the traitor. God bless, God bless this glorious State! Let her have her way in battle! She'll go where batteries crash with fate Or where thick rifles rattle. Give her the Light and let her try, And then who can may press her; She'll go straight on or she will die; God bless her, and God bless her! May 7, 1861. [Illustration] [Illustration] BETHEL. BY A. J. H. DUGANNE. [Theodore Winthrop, a brilliant young man of letters, was killed at Big Bethel, on June 10, 1861.--EDITOR.] We mustered at midnight, in darkness we formed, And the whisper went round of a fort to be stormed; But no drum-beat had called us, no trumpet we heard, And no voice of command, but our colonel's low word-- "Column! Forward!" And out, through the mist, and the murk of the morn, From the beaches of Hampton our barges were borne; And we heard not a sound, save the sweep of the oar, Till the word of our colonel came up from the shore-- "Column! Forward!" With hearts bounding bravely, and eyes all alight, As ye dance to soft music, so trod we that night; Through the aisles of the greenwood, with vines over-arched, Tossing dew-drops, like gems, from our feet, as we marched-- "Column! Forward!" As ye dance with the damsels, to viol and flute, So we skipped from the shadows, and mocked their pursuit; But the soft zephyrs chased us, with scents of the morn, As we passed by the hay-fields and green waving corn-- "Column! Forward!" For the leaves were all laden with fragrance of June, And the flowers and the foliage with sweets were in tune; And the air was so calm, and the forest so dumb, That we heard our own heart-beats, like taps of a drum-- "Column! Forward!" Till the lull of the lowlands was stirred by the breeze, And the buskins of morn brushed the tops of the trees, And the glintings of glory that slid from her track By the sheen of our rifles were gayly flung back-- "Column! Forward!"