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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.)
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE WAR-CLERGY OF THE UNITED
STATES, BISHOPS, PRIESTS, AND DEACONS.
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,
To give Thee thanks, we come!
No goats or bullocks, garlanded,
Unto thine altars go-
Our glad libations flow.
From pest-house and from dungeon foul
Where, maimed and torn, they die;
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;
The want that starves her child.
We give Thee praise, that Thou hast lit
The torch and fanned the flame;
Kind Father! in Thy name;
That, for the songs of idle joy
False angels sang of yore,
To Men, for evermore.
We know that wisdom, truth, and right
To us and ours are given-
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,
On them that sheathe the sword.
Where'er we tread, may deserts spring,
Till none are left to slay ;
We'll kneel again-and pray!