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We see not, know not ; all our way Is night,-- with Thee alone is day: From out the torrent's troubled drift, Above the storm our prayers we lift,

Thy will be done! The flesh may fail, the heart may faint, But who are we to make complaint, Or dare to plead, in times like these, The weakness of our love of ease ?

Thy will be done!

We take with solemn thankfulness
Our burden up, nor ask it less,
And count it joy that even we
May suffer, serve, or wait, for Thee,

Whose will be done!

Though dim as yet in tint and line, We trace Thy picture's wise design, And thank Thee that our age supplies Its dark relief of sacrifice.

Thy will be done !

And if, in our unworthiness,
Thy sacrificial wine we press;
If from Thy ordeal's heated bars

Our feet are seamed with crimson scars,

Thy will be done!

If, for the age to come, this hour
Of trial hath vicarious power,
And, blest by Thee, our present pain
Be Liberty's eternal gain,

Thy will be done!

Strike, Thou the Master, we Thy keys,
The anthem of the destinies !
The minor of Thy loftier strain,
Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain,

Thy will be done !


The firmament breaks up. In black eclipse
Light after light goes out. One evil star,
Luridly glaring through the smoke of war,
As in the dream of the Apocalypse,
Drags others down. Let us not weakly weep
Nor rashly threaten. Give us grace to keep
Our faith and patience; wherefore should we leap
On one hand into fratricidal fight,
Or, on the other, yield eternal right,
Frame lies of law, and good and ill confound ?
What fear we? Safe on freedom's vantage-yround
Our feet are planted : let us there remain
In unrevengeful calm, no means untried
Which truth can sanction, no just clain denied,
The sad spectators of a suicide !
They break the links of Union : shall we light
The fires of hell to weld anew the chain
On that red anvil where each blow is pain ?
Draw we not even now a ficer breath,

As from our shoulders falls a load of death
Loathsome as that the Tuscan's victim bore
When keen with life to a dead horror bound ?
Why take we up the accursed thing again?
Pity, forgive, but urge them back no more
Who, drunk with passion, flaunt disunion's rag
With its vile reptile-blazon. Let us press
The golden cluster on our brave old flag
In closer union, and, if numbering less,
Brighter shall shine the stars which still remain.

16th, 1st month, 1861.



We wait beneath the furnace-blast

The pangs of transformation ;
Not painlessly doth God recast
And mould anew the nation.

Hot burns the fire
Where wrongs expire;
Nor spares the hand

That from the land
Uproots the ancient evil.

'The hand-breadth cloud the sages feared

Its bloody rain is dropping ;
The poison plant the fathers spared
Ali else is overtopping:

East, West, South, North,
It curses the earth ;
All justice dies,

And fraud and lies
Live only in its shadow.

What gives the wheat-field blades of steel ?

What points the rebel cannon?
What sets the roaring rabble's heel
On the old star-spangled pennon ?

What breaks the oath
Of the men o' the South ?
What whets the knife

For the Union's life ?-
Hark to the answer: Slavery!

Then waste no blows on lesser foes

In strife unworthy freemen.
God lifts to-day the veil, and shows
The features of the demon !

O North and South,
Its victims both,
Can ye not cry:

“ Let slavery die!”
And union find in freedom ?

What though the cast-out‘spirit tear

The nation in his going ?
We who have shared the guilt must share
The pang of his o'erthrowing !

Whate'er the loss,
Whate'er the cross,
Shall they complain

Of present pain
Who trust in God's hercaster?

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For who that leans on His right

Was ever yet forsaken?
What righteous cause can siffer harm
If He its part has taken?

Though wild and loud
And dark the cloud,
Behind its folds

His hand upholds
The calm sky of to-morrow!

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