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91. ho! sons of the Puritan!

The Cavaliers, Jacobites, and Huguenots who settle the South, naturally hate, condemn, and despise the Puritans who settled the North. The former are master races — the latter, a slave race, descendants of the Saxon serfs.--De Bow's Review.

who through a cloud,
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed.

--Milton's Sonnet to Cromwell.

Ho! sons of the Puritan! sons of the Roundhead!
     Leave your fields fallow, and fly to the war!
The foe is advancing, the trumpet hath sounded--
     To the rescue of freedom, truth, justice, and law!
Hear His voice bid you on,
     Who spake unto Gideon:
“Rend the curtains of Midian,
     From Heshbon to Dor!”

From green-covered Chalgrave, from Naseby and Marston,
     Rich with the blood of the Earnest and True,
The war-cry of Freedom, resounding, bath passed on
     The wings of two centuries, and come down to you:
“Forward! to glory ye,
     Though the road gory be!
Strong of arm! let your story be,
     And swift to pursue!”

List! list! to the time-honored voices that loudly
     Speak from our Mother-land o'er the sad waves,--
From Hampden's dead lips, and from Cromwell's, who proudly
     Called freemen to palaces — tyrants to graves:
“Sons of the Good and Pure!
     Let not their blood endure
The attaint of a brood impure
     Of cowards and slaves!”

And old Massachusetts' hills echo the burden:
     “Sons of the Pure-in-heart, never give o'er!
Though blood flow in rivers, and death be the guerdon,
     All the sharper your swords be — death welcome the more!
Swear ye to sheathe your swords
     Not, till the heathen hordes
On their craven knees breathe the words,
     The Lord's we restore!”

Accursed be the land that shall give ye cold greeting;
     Cursed in its coffers, and cursed in its fame!
And woe to the traitors, feigning friendship, and meeting
     Your trust with assassins' dark weapons of shame!
As did Penuel's high
     Parapets lowly lie,
And the princes of Succoth die,
     So fare these the same!

Though sharp be the throes of these last tribulations,
     Look ye! a brighter dawn kindles the day!
Oh, children of Saints, and the hope of the Nation,
     Look aloft! your deliverance comet for aye!
Soon, from those fairer skies,
     White-winged, the herald flies
To the warders of Paradise,
     To call them away!

[81] Then on to the battle-shock! and if in anguish,
     Gasping, and feeble-pulsed, low on the field,
Struck down by the traitor's fell prowess ye languish,
     In Jehovah behold ye your Refuge and Shield!
Or, if, in victory,
     Doubts shall come thick to ye,
Trust in Him — He shall speak to ye
     The mystery revealed.

Ho! sons of the Puritan! sons of the Roundhead!
     Leave your fields fallow, your ships at the shore!
The foe is advancing — the trumpet hath sounded,
     And the jaws of their Moloch are dripping with gore!
Raise the old pennon's staff!
     Let the fierce cannons laugh,
Till the votaries of Ammon's calf
     Blaspheme ye no more!

--Boston Transcript, July 3.

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