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Once, Men of the North, we were brothers, and

still, Though brothers no more, we would gladly be

friends; Nor join in a conflict accursed, that must fill

With ruin the country on which it descends.

But, if smitten with blindness, and mad with the rage The gods gave to all whom they wished to des

troy, You would act a new Iliad, to darken the age

With horrors beyond what is told us of Troy

If, deaf as the adder itself to the cries,

When Wisdom, Humanity, Justice implore, You would have our proud eagle to feed on the cyes

Of those who have taught him so grandly to soar

If there be to your malice no limit imposed, .

And you purpose hereafter to rule with the rod The men upon whom you have already closed

Our goodly domain and the temples of God :

To the breeze then your banner dishonored unfold,

And, at once, let the tocsin be sounded afar;

We greet you, as greeted the Swiss Charles, the

BoldWith a farewell to peace and a welcome to war!

For the courage that clings to our soil, ever bright,

Shall catch inspiration from turf and from tide; Our sons unappalled shall go forth to the fight,

With the smile of the fair, the pure kiss of the


And the bugle its echoes shall send through the

past, In the trenches of Yorktown to waken the slain ; While the sod of King's Mountain shall heave at

the blast, And give up its heroes to glory again.

The War-Christian's Thanksgiving. (vi.)



Cursed be he that doeth the work of the Lord negligently, and cursed be he that keepeth back his sword from blood.-Jeremiah 48 : 10.

O God of Battles! once again,

With banner, trump, and drum,
And garments in Thy wine-press dyed,

To give Thee thanks, we come!

No goats or bullocks, garlanded,

Unto thine altars go-
With brothers' blood, by brothers shed,

Our glad libations flow.

From pest-house and from dungeon foul

Where, maimed and torn, they die;
From gory trench and charnel-house,

Where, heap on heap, they lie:

In every groan that yields a soul,

Each shriek a heart that rends


The War-Christian's Thanksgiving.

With every breath of tainted air

Our homage, Lord, ascends.

We thank thee for the sabre's gash,

The cannon's havoc wild;
We bless Thee for the widow's tears,

The want that starves her child.

We give Thee praise, that Thou hast lit

The torch and fanned the flame;
That lust and rapine hunt their prey,

Kind Father! in Thy name;

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That, for the songs of idle joy

False angels sang of yore,
Thou sendest War on Earth, Ill Will

To Men, for evermore.

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We know that wisdom, truth, and right

To us and ours are given-
That thou hast clothed us with the wrath

To do the work of Heaven.

We know that plains and cities waste

Are pleasant in Thine eyes;

Thou lov'st a hearthstone desolate,

Thou lov'st a mourner's cries.

Let not our weakness fall below

The measure of Thy will, And while the press hath wine to bleed,

Oh! tread it with us still !

Teach us to hate—as Jesus taught

Fond fools, of yore, to loveGrant us Thy vengeance as our own,

Thy Pity, hide above.

Teach us to turn, with reeking hands,

The pages of Thy word,
And hail the blessed curses there,

On them that sheathe the sword.

Where'er we tread, may deserts spring,

Till none are left to slay ;
And when the last red drop is shed,

We'll kneel again-and pray!

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