You have no such stately men
In your abolition den,
To march through foe and fen,
nothing dreading.

They may fall before the fire
of your legions,
Paid in gold for murd'rous hire--
bought allegiance!
But for every drop you shed
You shall leave a mound of dead;
And the vultures shall be fed
in our regions.

But the battle to the strong
is not given,
While the Judge of right and wrong
sits in heaven!
And the God of David still
Guides each pebble by His will;
There are giants yet to kill--
wrong's unshriven.




The Southern Cross.

By E. K. Blunt.