Oh Lord of hosts! his country called,
And nobly to her voice he sprung,
While o’er his brow our banner flashed,
Where chargers neighed and trumpets rung.
There were no tremors in his eye,
When putting on his warrior-crest;
And but a tear--it was when he
Was clasped unto his mother’s breast!
Oh Father! shield him from the shot;
But if it is his doom to die,
May he, with shouts of triumph round,
Bend on our flag his closing eye--
And feeling that his mother’s soul
Is watching on the field of death;
Where, though it weeps, yet gives a smile
Unto her brave boy’s last wild breath.
Oh, proudly will his mother see
Her Country wreathe his hero-tomb,
And many a Spring nurse tenderly,
With nature’s tears, the garland’s bloom!
How sweet will be the song of praise,
Where his dear relics peaceful lie!
How grand--away exultant thoughts!
Oh God! he must not, _must not_ die!
55
Away to the Fray.