Oh! why amid this hallowed scene. 
    Should signs of mortal feud be found;
  Why seek with such vain gauds to wean
    Our thoughts from holier relics ’round? 
  More fitting emblems here abound
    Of glory’s bright, unfading wreath;—­
  Conquests, with purer triumphs crowned;—­
    Proud victories over Sin and Death!

  Of these how many records rise
    Before my chastened spirit now;
  Memorials, pointing to the skies,
    Of Christian battles fought below. 
  What need of yon stern things to shew
    That darker deeds have oft been done?—­
  Is’t not enough for Man to know
    He lives but through the blood of ONE!

  And thou, mild delegate of God,
    Whose words of balm, and guiding light. 
  Would lead us, from earth’s drear abode,
    To worlds with bliss for ever bright,—­
  What have the spoils of mortal fight
    To do with themes ’tis thine to teach? 
  Faith’s saving grace—­each sacred rite
    Thou know’st to practice as to preach!

  The blessings of the contrite heart,
    Thy bloodless conquests best proclaim;
  The tears from sinners’ eyes that start,
    Are meetest records of thy fame. 
  The glory that may grace thy name
    From loftier triumphs sure must spring;—­
  The grateful thoughts thy worth may claim,
  Trophies like these can never bring!

  Then, wherefore on this sainted spot,
    With peace and love, and hope imbued,—­
  Some vision calm of bliss to blot,
    And turn our thoughts on deeds of blood,—­
  Should signs of battle-fields intrude:—­
    Man wants no trophies here of strife;
  His Oriflamme—­Faith unsubdued;—­
    His Panoply—­a spotless life!

* * * * *

THE BRITISH SAILOR’S SONG.

BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

  Away with bayonet and with lance,
    With corslet, casque and sword;
  Our island king no war-horse needs,
    For on the sea he’s lord. 
  His throne’s the war-ship’s lofty deck,
    His sceptre is the mast;
  His kingdom is the rolling wave,
    His servant is the blast. 
  His anchor’s up, fair Freedom’s flag
    Proud to the mast he nails;
  Tyrants and conquerors bow your heads,
    For there your terror sails.

  I saw fierce Prussia’s chargers stand,
    Her children’s sharp swords out;—­
  Proud Austria’s bright spurs streaming red,
    When rose the closing shout. 
  But soon the steeds rushed masterless,
    By tower and town and wood;
  For lordly France her fiery youth
    Poured o’er them like a flood. 
  Go, hew the gold spurs from your heels,
    And let your steeds run free;
  Then come to our unconquered decks,
    And learn to reign at sea.