Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 9, No. 52, February, 1862

Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 9, No. 52,
February, 1862

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February,
1862, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no
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Title: Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 9, No. 52, February, 1862
Author: Various
Release Date: April 17, 2004 [EBook #12066]
Language: English
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THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.
A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.
* * * * *
VOL. IX. FEBRUARY, 1862.--NO. LII
* * * * *

BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is
trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath
loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword: His truth is
marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They
have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read
His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps: His day is
marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal
with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let this Hero,
born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching
on."
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.
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.

AGNES OF SORRENTO

CHAPTER XX
FLORENCE AND HER PROPHET
It was drawing towards evening, as two travellers, approaching
Florence from the south, checked their course on the summit of one of
the circle of hills which command a view of the city, and seemed to
look down upon it with admiration. One of these was our old friend
Father Antonio, and the other the Cavalier. The former was mounted on
an ambling mule, whose easy pace suited well with his meditative
habits; while the other reined in a high-mettled steed, who, though now
somewhat jaded under the fatigue of a long journey, showed by a series
of little lively motions of his ears and tail, and by pawing the ground
impatiently, that he had the inexhaustible stock of spirits which goes
with good blood.

"There she lies, my Florence," said the monk, stretching his hands out
with enthusiasm. "Is she not indeed a sheltered lily growing fair among
the hollows of the mountains? Little she may be, Sir, compared to old
Rome; but every inch of her is a gem,--every inch!"
And, in truth, the scene was worthy of the artist's enthusiasm. All the
overhanging hills that encircle the city with their silvery olive-gardens
and their pearl-white villas were now lighted up with evening glory.
The old gray walls of the convents of San Miniato and the Monte
Oliveto were touched with yellow; and even the black obelisks of the
cypresses in their cemeteries had here and there streaks and dots of
gold, fluttering like bright birds among their gloomy branches. The
distant snow-peaks of the Apennines, which even in spring long wear
their icy mantles, were shimmering and changing like an opal ring with
tints of violet, green, blue, and rose, blended in inexpressible softness
by that dreamy haze which forms the peculiar feature of Italian skies.
In this loving embrace of mountains lay the city, divided by the Arno as
by a line of rosy crystal barred by the graceful arches of its bridges.
Amid the crowd of palaces and spires and towers rose central and
conspicuous the great Duomo, just crowned with that magnificent
dome which was then considered a novelty and a marvel in architecture,
and which Michel Angelo looked longingly back upon when he was
going to Rome to build that more wondrous orb of Saint Peter's. White
and stately by its side shot up the airy shaft of the Campanile; and the
violet vapor swathing the whole city in a tender indistinctness, these
two striking objects, rising by their magnitude far above it, seemed to
stand alone in a sort of airy grandeur.
And now