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.