And from the victory of the virile deed
Spring churches and new states.

And they that fall though but a little space
Fall only in His hand,
And with their lives they pave the fearful place
Whereon the pillars stand.
God treads no more the winepress of His wrath
As once He did alone,
He bids us share with Him the perilous path
The altar and the throne.
When from the iron clash and stormy stress
Which mark His wondrous way,
Shines forth all haloed round with holiness
The rose of perfect day.




ENGLAND.

BY ELIZA COOK.


My heart is pledg'd in wedded faith to England's "Merrie Isle,"
I love each low and straggling cot, each famed ancestral pile;
I'm happy when my steps are free upon the sunny glade,
I'm glad and proud amid the crowd that throng its mart of trade;
I gaze upon our open port, where Commerce mounts her throne,
Where every flag that comes 'ere now has lower'd to our own.