"He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on." On returning to Boston, Mrs. Howe carried her hymn to James T. Fields, at that time the editor of the _Atlantic Monthly_, and it was first published in that magazine. The title, _The Battle Hymn of the Republic_, was the work of Mr. Fields. Strange to say, when it first appeared the song aroused no special attention. Though it was destined to have such world-wide appreciation, it won its first victory in Libby Prison. Nearly a year after its publication, a copy of a newspaper containing it was smuggled into the prison, where many hundreds of Northern officers and soldiers were confined, among them being the brilliant Chaplain, now Bishop, Charles C. McCabe. The Chaplain could sing anything and make music out of it, but he seized on this splendid battle hymn with enthusiastic delight. It makes the blood in one's veins boil again with patriotic fervor to hear him tell how the tears rained down strong men's cheeks as they sang in the Southern prison, far away from home and friends, those wonderful closing lines:-- "In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me; As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on." It was Chaplain McCabe who had the privilege and honor of calling public attention to the song after his release. He came to Washington and in his lecture (that has come to be almost as famous as the battle hymn) on "The Bright Side of Life in Libby Prison," he described the singing of the hymn by himself and his companions in that dismal place of confinement. People now began to ask who had written the hymn, and the author's name was easily established by a reference to the magazine. [Illustration] [Illustration: _GEORGE FREDERICK ROOT_] _JUST BEFORE THE BATTLE, MOTHER._ Just before the battle, mother, I am thinking most of you, While upon the field we're watching, With the enemy in view-- Comrades brave are round me lying, Fill'd with tho't of home and God; For well they know that on the morrow, Some will sleep beneath the sod. Farewell, mother, you may never Press me to your heart again; But oh, you'll not forget me, mother, If I'm number'd with the slain. Oh I long to see you, mother, And the loving ones at home, But I'll never leave our banner Till in honor I can come. Tell the traitors all around you That their cruel words, we know, In ev'ry battle kill our soldiers By the help they give the foe.