These candidates，however，have to pass an examination，both as to their knowledge and as to their bodily health and strength，before they can become “cadets，”as the students at West Point are called.Those who succeed in passing through the four years of severe study required in the academy，are appointed to the rank of second lieutenant in the army.The military academy is an excellent school，and keeps our army supplied with very well trained officers.
16.Since the close of the civil war the active duty of the army has consisted mostly in keeping the Indians in order.We shall have more to say of this when we come to speak of the American Indians.
①The law requires that appointments be made by the president of the United States.But the president permits representatives to name candidates，and in many districts a competitive examination is held，the boy who does the best being nominated.
17.Three War Poems.Mrs.Julia Ward Howe？once visited the camps of the Union army in Virginia during the civil war，and on her return wrote the poem known as the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”Mrs.Howe has been active through many years as an author and lecturer.Perhaps this is her best known poem.
18.Lord Byron，a famous English poet，who translated the “Greek War Song，”sympathized so warmly with the Greeks in their war of independence against the tyrannical Turks that he not only gave them money，but went in person to share in the war.He died in Greece in 1824，before the war was ended.
19.Theodore O‘Hara，an American soldier in the Mexican war，wrote “The Bivouac of the Dead”in 1847，for the dedication of a cemetery devoted to the Kentuckians who fell at the battle of Buena Vista.
20.These three poems are grouped here as expressing different phases of emotion aroused by the stern realities of war.
Battle Hymn of the Republic
JULIA WARD HOWE
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 watchfires 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 My grace with you shall deal，Let the 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 judgmentseat：Oh I 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.
A Greek War Song
Translated from the Greek by Lord Byron
SONS of the Greeks，arise！
The glorious hour’s gone forth，And，worthy of such ties，Display who gave us birth.
CHORUS
Sons of Greeks！let us go In arms against the foeTill their hated blood shall flowIn a river past our feet.Then manfully despisingThe Turkish tyrant‘s yoke，Let your country see you rising，And all her chains are broke，Brave shades of chiefs and sages，Behold the coming strife！Hellenes of past ages，Oh，start again to life！
At the sound of my trumpet，breaking Your sleep，oh，join with me！
And the seven hilled city
seeking，
Fight，conquer，till we’re free.
CHORUS
Sparta，Sparta，why in slumbers Lethargic dost thou lieAwake，and join thy numbers With Athens，old ally！
Leonidas recalling，
That chief Of ancient song，Who saved thee once from falling，The terrible ！the strong！Who made that bold diversionIn old Thermopylae，And warring with the Persian
To keep his country free；With his three hundred wagingThe battle，long he stood，And like a lion raging，Expired in seas of blood.
CHORUS
The Bivouac of the Dead
THEODORE O‘HARA
THE muffled drum’s sad roll has beat
The soldier‘s last tattoo；
No more on life’s parade shall meet That brave and fallen few.
On Fame‘s eternal campingground
Their silent tents are spread，
And Glory guards，with solemn round，The bivouac of the dead.
①Constantinople.
No rumor of the foe’s advance Now swells upon the wind ；No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind；No vision of the morrow‘s strife The warrior’s dream alarms ；No braying horn nor screaming fifeAt dawn shall call to arms.
Their shivered swords are red with rust，Their plumed heads are bowed ；Their haughty banner，trailed in dust，Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow，And the proud forms，by battle gashed，Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop，the flashing blade，
The bugle‘s stirring blast，
The charge，the dreadful cannonade，The din and shout，are past；No war’s wild note nor glory‘s pealShall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau，Flushed with the triumph yet to gain，Came down the serried foe.Who heard the thunder of the frayBreak o’er the field beneath，Knew well the watchword of that day
Was “Victory or death.”
Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O‘er all that stricken plain，
For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain；And still the storm of battle blew，Still swelled the gory tide；Not long，our stout old chieftain knew，Such odds his strength could bide.
’T was in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr‘s graveThe flower of his beloved land，The nation’s flag to save.
By rivers of their fathers‘gore
His firstborn laurels grew，
And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too.
Full many a norther’s breath has swept
O‘er Angostura’s plain
And long the pitying sky has wept Above its mouldered slain.
