Those whose breasts were scarred for you, When to Freedom's ranks they flew, FIFTY YEARS AGO!

Should again the war-trump peal,
There shall Indian firmness seal
Pilgrim faith and Patriot zeal,

Prompt to strike the blow;

There shall valor's work be done;
Like the Sire shall be the Son,

Where the fight was waged and won,
FIFTY YEARS AGO!

THE BROTHERS.

WE ARE BUT TWO

the others sleep

Through death's untroubled night;

We are but two- O, let us keep

The link that binds us bright.

We in one mother's arms were locked-
Long be her love repaid;

In the same cradle we were rocked,
Round the same hearth we played.

Our boyish sports were all the same,
Each little joy and woe;
Let manhood keep alive the flame,
Lit up so long ago.

WE ARE BUT TWO be that the band

To hold us till we die

;

Shoulder to shoulder let us stand,

Till side by side we lie.

LINES TO A YOUNG MOTHER.

YOUNG mother! what can feeble friendship say, To soothe the anguish of this mournful day? They, they alone whose hearts like thine have bled, Know how the living sorrow for the dead;

Each tutored voice, that seeks such grief to cheer,

Strikes cold upon the weeping parent's ear;

I've felt it all alas! too well I know

How vain all earthly power to hush thy woe!
God cheer thee, childless mother! 'tis not given
For man to ward the blow that falls from Heaven.

I've felt it all- as thou art feeling now;

Like thee, with stricken heart and aching brow,
I've sat and watched by dying beauty's bed,
And burning tears of hopeless anguish shed;
I've gazed upon the sweet, but pallid face,
And vainly tried some comfort there to trace;
I've listened to the short and struggling breath;
I've seen the cherub eye grow dim in death;
Like thee I've veiled my head in speechless gloom,
And laid my first-born in the silent tomb.

ORDINATION HYMN.

OUR fathers, Lord, to seek a spot,
Where they might kneel to thee,
Their own fair heritage forgot,

And braved an unknown sea.

Here found their pilgrim souls repose,
Where long the heathen roved,
And here their humble anthems rose,
To bless the Power they loved.

They sleep in dust-but where they trod,

A feeble, fainting band,

Glad millions catch the strain, O God,
And sound it through the land.

Come, Lord, to this new temple now,
Thy servant here behold;

In thy dread name he breathes his vow,
To guard this little fold.

Long may he stand thy herald here,

Thy lessons to impart;

From every eye to wipe the tear,

The stain from every heart;

In paths of peace to bid them tread,

Where no vain feuds arise,

And from his life a lustre shed,
To light them to the skies.

So, when the last, long night shall go, The last, glad morning break, When all that walked in truth below, In joy above shall wake,

There may thy servant, Lord, be found The chosen of thy Son,

And hear from him the glorious sound,

"Well done, beloved one!"