“Our cause is so holy, so just, and so true,—­
    Thank God!  I can give a defender like you! 
    For home, and for children,—­for freedoms—­for bread,—­
    For the house of our God,—­for the graves of our dead,—­
    For leave to exist on the soil of our birth,—­
    For everything manhood holds dearest on earth: 
    When these are the things that we fight for—­dare I
    Hold back my best treasure, with plaint or with sigh? 
    My cheek would blush crimson,—­my spirit be galled,
    If he were not there when the muster was called! 
    When we pleaded for peace, every right was denied;
    Every pressing petition turned proudly aside;
    Now God judge betwixt us!—­God prosper the right! 
    To brave men there’s nothing remains, but to fight: 
    I grudge you not, Douglass,—­die, rather than yield,—­
    And like the old heroes,—­come home on your shield!”

    The morning is breaking:—­the flush of the dawn
    Is warning the soldier, ’tis time to be gone;
    The children around him expectantly wait,—­
    His horse, all caparisoned, paws at the gate: 
    With face strangely pallid,—­no sobbings,—­no sighs,—­
    But only a luminous mist in her eyes,
    His wife is subduing the heart-throbs that swell,
    And calming herself for a quiet farewell.

    There falls a felt silence:—­the note of a bird,
    A tremulous twitter,—­is all that is heard;
    The circle has knelt by the holly-bush there,—­
    And listen,—­there comes the low breathing of prayer.

    “Father! fold thine arms of pity
      Round us as we lowly bow;
    Never have we kneeled before Thee
      With such burden’d hearts as now!

    Joy has been our constant portion,
      And if ill must now befall,
    With a filial acquiescence,
      We would thank thee for it all.

    In the path of present duty,
      With Thy hand to lean upon,
    Questioning not the hidden future,
      May we walk serenely on.

    For this holy, happy home-love,
      Purest bliss that crowns my life,—­
    For these tender, trusting children,—­
      For this fondest, faithful wife,—­

    Here I pour my full thanksgiving;
      And, when heart is torn from heart,
    Be our sweetest tryst-word, ’Mizpah,’—­
      Watch betwixt us while we part!

    And if never round this altar,
      We should kneel as heretofore,—­
    If these arms in benediction
      Fold my precious ones no more,—­

    Thou, who in her direst anguish,
      Sooth’dst thy mother’s lonely lot,
    In thy still unchanged compassion,
      Son of Man! forsake them not!”

The little ones each he has caught to his breast, And clasped them, and kissed them with fervent caress; Then wordless and tearless, with hearts running o’er, They part who have never been parted before:  He springs to his saddle,—­the rein is drawn tight,—­ And Beechenbrook Cottage is lost to his sight.

II.