Though storms of sharp distress invade;
Before they utter their complaints
Behold Him present with their aid!”
The stanza, or a like one, was sung in a firm tone, such as only times like these could inspire. The heroic quality sank into tuneful reverence with the lines:
“There is a stream whose gentle flow
Supplies the city of our God,”
or a like paraphrase. A long prayer followed; the hour-glass was turned—silence in the full pews!
The sermon followed in the silence. Then the minister made an appeal which went to every heart.
“The nation stands waiting the Divine will. We have given to the cause our sons, our harvests, the increase of our flocks. We have sent of our substance, our best, to every northern battle-field. We have seen our men go forth, and they come not back. We have seen our cattle driven away, and our cribs and cellars left empty; we have heard our Governor called a ‘brother’ by the noble Washington, and the glorious regiment of France’s honor has sung amid these cedars the songs of Auvergne.
“But the trumpets of the northern winds are sounding, and our army faces winter again, cloakless and some of them shoeless, in tatters. We are making new garments for the soldiers, but we have no red stripes to put upon them; we may not honor the noblest soldier in the world with any uniform, or insignia of his calling. He goes forth in homespun, and in homespun he faces the glittering foe, and falls. His honor is in himself, and not in his garments. He courageously goes down to the chambers of silence without stripe or star.”