The twain now unbeholden to our eyes,
Were soldiers for a cause they thought was right—
They were such men as set the torch alight
That marks our destinies;
Yet, with a song that rings above the din
Of battle, and with brows where there might rest
The victor’s crown, or singer’s wreath, more blest,
Through hymns of peace to win.
I read one morning, in a day long gone,
The songs of Hayne, all odorous of the pines;