Albany New York
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HARPER'S WEEKLY. [JUNE 1, 1861. 348 THE ARMORY AT ALBANY, NEW YORK.OUR ARMY AT ALBANY.THE accompanying illustrations will introduce the reader to the ALBANY ARMORY the headquarters of our State army in that section of the State. Here, since the President's proclamation, large bodies of men have been constantly engaged in close drill, and here the Military Board concentrates its efforts in endeavoring to fit them out. Our second picture represents the drumming out of two soldiers who refused to take the oath. They were stripped of their arms, a white feather stuck over each ear, and they were marched out of the Armory grounds with the drums playing the Rogue's March. Crowds of people assembled to see them undergo the degrading penance. TOWN AND COUNTRY.'TIS five years ago, I was playing At pool, as he doubled me in, I remember Fred Lushington saying, "Yes, nice little girl, but no tin." "Oh! such a sweet net was she spreading To catch me." He stroked his mustache. "I'd have ask'd you to dance at my wedding, But I beat a retreat in quick march." "I'd no thought at her feelings of hurting, But the thing began awkward to grow; If I did pass the limits of flirting, It was down in the country, you know." "So," said Frederick, "fearing extraction Of what this all meant by papa, I fled, leaving no ground for an action." And laughed, as he lit his cigar. II. Poor innocent fool! she is reading What he wrote in 'er album that day, The verse of a false-hearted pleading, Inscribed "To the bright eyes of May." She rises; the light low is burning; She walks to the window; no moon; All starless the dark night is turning, In silence, the point of its noon. Hark! listen! in sobs of wild passion, Goes forth on the blackness her cry; Like rain drops, they heavily flash on The stream of the hour flowing by. Her dark hair all flowing around her, Her face hidden in her white hands, In a trance of dull sorrow, thus found her Dawn, winterly lighting the lands. III. Did she die? Not all; she has married Since then Sir Actaeon de Vere,
And the thrust of that sorrow has
parried
I met her, as lovely as ever, 'Tis what bring all this back, yesterday, Fred was there, looking out for the Trevor, He bowed, as he pass'd on his bay. And though in the Row that's celled Rotten, Such feelings, of course, have no place, I thought she had not quite forgotten, By the flush, as she mov'd, on her face. Lang Syne and the sketchings together, Beneath the cool rustle of leaves, Whence oft, in the rich autumn weather, They wander'd away to the sheaves. DRUMMING OUT ALBANY VOLUNTEERS WHO REFUSED TO TAKE THE OATH. - [FROM A SKETCH MADE ON THE SPOT.] |
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