“In his fainting footsore marches, In his flight from the stricken fray, In the snare of the lonely ambush, The debts that we owe him, pay.
“In God’s hands alone is vengeance, But he strikes with the hands of men, And his blight would wither our manhood, If we smote not the smiter again.
“By the graves where our fathers slumber, By the shrines where our mothers prayed, By our homes and hopes of freedom, Let every man swear by his blade.—
“That he will not sheathe nor stay it, Till from point to hilt it glow, With the flush of Almighty justice, In the blood of the cruel foe.”
They swore; and the answering sunlight Leapt from their lifted swords, And the hate in their hearts made echo, To the wrath of their burning words.
[Southern.]
