With the blessings of home and the smiles of your God,
Nobly tread the red paths which your fathers have trod;
Undismayed and unblanched to the battle-field go,
Where the loud thunders peal and the purple streams flow.

Let degenerate knaves, with mean blood in their veins, Bend their necks to the yoke of the forgers of chains; They shall find that the tyrants are weak in their strength, And that Freedom and Right will sure triumph at length.

Ah! remember, ye traitors, throughout the wide land,
That the terrible day of revenge is at hand;
Swift as fires on the prairies the tall grass consume,
So your marshalled battalions shall meet their just doom.

Ye may sneer at the North with a proud look of scorn, But your guns shall be hushed and your banners be torn, And what glory ye deem shall be turned into shame, With the brand of black infamy fixed to your name.

The Gathering.

EAR, O hear ye the sounds of a heart-piercing wail,

HEAR, O hear ye sounds of a

Sweeping over the land on the wings of the gale? Why the wringing of hands and wild looks of despair? E'en the heavens are black, and a scowling look wear.

While the tempest howls on and its doleful tune sings, Over mountain and glen loud the battle-cry rings; Startled men grasp their swords, see the lightnings afar, Hear the rolling of drums and the thunders of war.

In the snow-mantled hills, in the sweet sylvan glen, There is prancing of steeds, there is mounting of men; There is bounding of hearts, there is parting of friends, And a blessing on each that his country defends.

See the waving of flags, and brave troops rushing past, Like the swift flying clouds that are borne on the blast; As the floods downward roll in their might to the main, So the valiant dash on to the blood-covered plain.

God of mercy and love! on the red battle-field

Nerve the brave and the just, that to man never yield;

Cheer the hearts wrung with grief and the firesides of woe; Sparc, O spare our fair land, and lay dark Treason low.

The Dying Advice of the Puritan Mother

TO HER ONLY SON.

DRAW O

RAW nearer to the couch, my boy, and clasp my hand in thine,

That I may bless thee ere I die, and pray for aid Divine

To shield thee and to nerve thy arm, wherever thou may'st go, To fight as fought your noble sires, and crush the haughty foe.

Remember, while these withered arms now buckle on your

sword,

That freedom's battles bravely fought are battles of the Lord; Your father wore the sword you wear; and by his gallant name, And by our country's cause, my son, oh! sheathe it not in shame.

These wrinkled cheeks have watered been by many a bitter tear, Now, I must part as mothers part, with all they hold most dear; But while my lips can utter words, my earnest prayer shall be, That God may shower his blessings down, my only son, on thee.

We cannot lift the veil that hides the future from our view,
Yet guerdons bright await the brave who honor's path pursue;
So, to your duty go, my son; we never more can meet,
For chilling frosts of death, I feel, are freezing at my feet.

Dry up these manly tears you shed, your dying mother kiss ; You leave for scenes of strife and blood, and I for endless bliss; One more embrace before we part-a last and long adieu— Whatever be thy fate, my son, be to thy country true.