The land is holy where they fought,
    And holy where they fell;
  For by their blood that land was bought,
    The land they loved so well,
  Then glory to that valiant band,
  The honored saviours of the land!

  O, few and weak their numbers were,—­
    A handful of brave men;
  But to their God they gave their prayer,
    And rushed to battle then. 
  The God of battles heard their cry,
  And sent to them the victory.

  They left the ploughshare in the mold,
  Their flocks and herds without a fold,
  The sickle in the unshorn grain,
  The corn, half-garnered, on the plain,
  And mustered, in their simple dress,
  For wrongs to seek a stern redress,
  To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe,
  To perish, or o’ercome their foe.

  And where are ye, O fearless men? 
    And where are ye to-day? 
  I call:—­the hills reply again
    That ye have passed away;
  That on old Bunker’s lonely height,
    In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
  The grass grows green, the harvest bright
    Above each soldier’s mound. 
  The bugle’s wild and warlike blast
    Shall muster them no more;
  An army now might thunder past,
    And they heed not its roar. 
  The starry flag, ’neath which they fought
    In many a bloody day,
  From their old graves shall rouse them not,
    For they have passed away.

ISAAC M’LELLAN.

* * * * *

THE REFORMER.

  All grim and soiled and brown and tan,
    I saw a Strong One, in his wrath,
  Smiting the godless shrines of man
          Along his path.

  The Church beneath her trembling dome
    Essayed in vain her ghostly charm: 
  Wealth shook within his gilded home
          With strange alarm.

  Fraud from his secret chambers fled
    Before the sunlight bursting in: 
  Sloth drew her pillow o’er her head
          To drown the din.

  “Spare,” Art implored, “yon holy pile;
    That grand old time-worn turret spare:” 
  Meek Reverence, kneeling in the aisle
          Cried out, “Forbear!”

  Gray-bearded Use, who, deaf and blind,
    Groped for his old accustomed stone,
  Leaned on his staff, and wept to find
          His seat o’erthrown.

  Young Romance raised his dreamy eyes,
    O’erhung with paly locks of gold,—­
  “Why smite,” he asked in sad surprise,
          “The fair, the old?”

  Yet louder rang the Strong One’s stroke,
    Yet nearer flashed his axe’s gleam;
  Shuddering and sick of heart I woke,
          As from a dream.

  I looked:  aside the dust-cloud rolled,—­
    The Waster seemed the Builder too;
  Upspringing from the ruined Old
          I saw the New.