"Beneath the bivouac's starry lamps, We saw your march-worn children die; In shrouds of moss, in cypress swamps, We saw your dead uncoffined lie. "We heard the starving prisoner's sighs, And saw, from line and trench, your sons Follow our flight with home-sick eyes Beyond the battery's smoking guns." "And heard and saw ye only wrong And pain," I cried, "O wing-worn flocks?" "We heard," they sang, "the freedman's song, The crash of Slavery's broken locks! "We saw from new, uprising States The treason-nursing mischief spurned, As, crowding Freedom's ample gates, The long estranged and lost returned. "O'er dusky faces, seamed and old, And hands horn-hard with unpaid toil, With hope in every rustling fold, We saw your star-dropt flag uncoil. "And struggling up through sounds accursed, A grateful murmur clomb the air; A whisper scarcely heard at first, It filled the listening heavens with prayer. "And sweet and far, as from a star, Replied a voice which shall not cease, Till, drowning all the noise of war, It sings the blessed song of peace!" So to me, in a doubtful day Of chill and slowly greening spring, Low stooping from the cloudy gray, The wild-birds sang or seemed to sing. They vanished in the misty air, The song went with them in their flight; But lo! they left the sunset fair, And in the evening there was light. April, 1864. THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATHA. A LEGEND OF "THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE," A. D. 1154-1864. A STRONG and mighty Angel, Calm, terrible, and bright, The cross in blended red and blue Upon his mantle white. Two captives by him kneeling, Each on his broken chain, Sang praise to God who raiseth The dead to life again! Dropping his cross-wrought mantle, "Wear this," the Angel said; "Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign, The white, the blue, and red." Then rose up John de Matha In the strength the Lord Christ gave, And begged through all the land of France The ransom of the slave. The gates of tower and castle Before him open flew, The drawbridge at his coming fell, The door-bolt backward drew. For all men owned his errand, And paid his righteous tax; And the hearts of lord and peasant Were in his hands as wax. At last, outbound from Tunis, His bark her anchor weighed, Freighted with seven-score Christian souls Whose ransom he had paid. But, torn by Paynim hatred, Her sails in tatters hung; And on the wild waves, rudderless, A shattered hulk she swung. "God save us!" cried the captain, "For naught can man avail; Oh, woe betide the ship that lacks Her rudder and her sail!