For lo! The bugle note of war
Is wafted from a southern strand!
O Lord of Battles! we implore
The guidance of Thy mighty hand,
While as of yore, the hero draws
His sword in Freedom's sacred cause!
And when at last the oaken wreath
Shall crown afresh the victor's brow;
And Peace the conquering sword resheath,
Be with us then, as well as now!
Our stay in each contingency,
In peace or war, we turn to Thee!
The Nations Peril.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates and men decay. —Goldsmith.
I fear the palace of the rich,
I fear the hovel of the poor;
Though fortified by moat and ditch,
The castle strong could not endure;
Nor can the squalid hovel be
A source of strength, and those who cause
This widening discrepancy
Infringe on God's eternal laws.
The heritage of man, the earth,
Was framed for homes, not vast estates;
A lowering scale of human worth
Each generation demonstrates,
Which feels the landlord's iron hand,
And hopeless, plod with effort brave;
Who love no home can love no land;
These own no home, until the grave.
The nation's strongest safeguards lie
In free and unencumbered homes;
Not in its hordes of vagrancy,
Nor in its proud, palatial domes;
Nor can the mercenary sword
E'er cross with that the freeman draws.
Nor oil upon the waters poured
Perpetuate an unjust cause.
Eternal Justice, still prevail
And stay this menace ere too late!
Ere sturdy manhood droop and fail,
The law, immutable, of fate;
No foe can daunt the stalwart heart
Of him who guards that sacred ground
Where every hero owns a part,
Where each an ample home has found.