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Page 153
We think of the tents on the lowly ground,
Where our patriot soldiers lie;
And the sentry's bleak and lonely march,
'Neath the dark and starless sky.
And we pray, with a tearful heart, for those
Who brave for us yet more--
And we wish this war, with its thousand ills
And griefs, was only o'er.
We pray when the skies are bright and clear,
When the winds are soft and warm--
But oh! we pray with an aching heart
'Mid the winter's rain and storm.
We fain would lift these mantling clouds
That shadow our sunny clime;
We can but wait--for we know there'll be
A day, in the coming time,
When peace, like a rosy dawn, will flood
Our land with softest light:
Then--we will scarcely hearken the rain
In the dreary winter's night.
My Country.
By W. D. Porter, S. C.
I.
Go, read the stories of the great and free,
The nations on the long, bright roll of fame,
Whose noble rage has baffled the decree
Of tyrants to despoil their life and name;
II.
Whose swords have flashed like lightning in the eyes
Of robber despots, glorying in their might,
And taught the world, by deeds of high emprise,
The power of truth and sacredness of right:
III.
Whose people, strong to suffer and endure,
In faith have wrestled till the blessing came,
And won through woes a victory doubly sure,
As martyr wins his crown through blood and flame.
IV.
The purest virtue has been sorest tried,
Nor is there glory without patient toil;
And he who woos fair Freedom for his bride,
Through suffering must be purged of stain and soil.
V.
My country! in this hour of trial sore,
When in the balance trembling hangs thy fate,
Brace thy great heart with courage to the core,
Nor let one jot of faith or hope abate!
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