Hymn & Poem

Of Lincoln wear a tender glow
As on this scene he gazes now.
I feel a God-like presence near—
The Great Emancipator's here !
0 death ! where is thy sting? 0 grave !
Where is thy victory o'er the brave?
Not with dim sight and tottering frame,
They sought the dust from which they came.
With eye whose flash seemed of the storm,
And war embodied in each form,
They marched at Glory's clarion call
To graves as to a banquet hall ;
And though sweet voices filled each wind
Frome home, cast not one look behind.

Some thought of stately marble halls,
That in the city tower'd,
And others of a humble cot,
Amid the vines embower'd ;
Yet, whereso'er their thoughts were turned,
As memory's magnet drew them,
The spot was hallowed by the name
Of "Home, Sweet Home," unto them.

But when the morn in beauty broke,
Those heroes who had striven
So nobly for their homes, had found
A better home in heaven.
Then, softer grew the hard brown hand,
As, with a woman's care,
Rough soldiers gently bore away

While Sumner, Meade and Sedgwick,
Like old campaigners, made
Raw striplings breast like regulars
The gallant cannonade.

Historic Maryland ! Such deeds
Have made, with brilliant gleam,
A Marathon of every plain,
A Nile of every stream ;
And nevermore would Europe boast
Of her scarred grenadiers,
Could she have seen the work that day
Done by our volunteers.

Four times yon wood was won and lost,
Where lay the foe entrenched,
And to its staff our banner clung
In scarlet rain, bedrenched ;

The combat opened ; and between
The valleys whistling then,
From every sulphur cloud was heard
The cheers of Hooker's men ;
And where the yellow corn had waved
Artillery sowed the field,
With shot and shell that make it still
An iron harvest yield.

'Mid showers of grape and canister,
Along our lines of blue,
The soul of Seventy-Six struck with
The arm of Sixty-Two.
Beneath our flag, the Lord of Hosts
Fought on this reeking sod,
For traitors to their country
Are traitors to their God.

After the singing of the hymn, the poem written by Clarence F. Buhler, of New York, who was absent by reason of illness, was read by G. L. Cranmer, Esq., the Trustee of the State of West Virginia, as follows :

THE DEDICATION POEM.

Upon a bright September morn,
Five years ago to-day,
The pleasant hills of Maryland
Green and untrodden lay ;
While autumn leaves were strewn around
In purple and in gold,
Like that Assyrian host o'er which
The plague at midnight rolled.

The pheasant beat his long tattoo

The following hymn was then sung:

HYMN II.—"America."

Hallowed be all around ! This place is holy ground,
Henceforth, for aye ;
Here mountain shadows wave O'er many a cherished grave,
Where sleep the young and brave,
Home from the fray !

Here, where the flash and roar
Battle and carnage bore
Over the main,
Soft, on your lowly bed,
Rest your fame-laurel'd head,
Our noble patriot dead,
By treason slain!

Grief stricken hearts have throbbed,
Sable clad homes have sobbed