[from the Montreal Advertiser.] ‘ Not in the dim cathedral,
Filled with the organ's tones,
But on the sward, beneath the treat,
Through which the sad wind moans,
Where spurs and sabres clank,
And chargers paw the ground,
And the bronzed and bearded troopers kneel,
Silent and stern, around.
Thence to the Heaven ascending,
Breathes forth as earnest prayer
As ever, from the towering root,
The angels upward bear;
When the bloody toll of battle
Is o'er, and the fight is won,
And the dying gaze, from their last red field,
Upon the smoke dimmed son.
And he, the war worn chieftain,
With bowed and humbled head,
Fears forth a prayer for his native land,
For the living and the dead;
In sight of their desolated homes,
Laid waste with fire and sword,
Of the wounded and slain, he bids them turn
To the eternal Lord.
He prays for the wives and mothers,
(Worthy of ancient Rome,)
Who watch, in the gathering night, for those
Who will never more come home;
Old gray haired men like children weep,
And boys press nearer still;
The wounded open their lading eyes,
And forget the warning chill.
He prays for their bleeding country--
The wronged and outraged South--s
And the grim, stern look of vengeance
Gathers around each month,
He thanks the God of battles
For His blessing in time of need,
And asks for the help of that strong right arm
Until the land is freed.
Next day, where the fight is thickest,
And the bayonets clash and meet--
Where the shell and found shot hiss and scream,
And the bullets come thick as sleet--
Jackson will lead the foremost charge
Till the routed foemen feel
In flank and rear the avenging stroke
Of the trenchant Southern steel.
The moon light gleams on the cannon,
And the scouts go galloping by;
The watch-fires flare through the gloomy trees
And redden the quiet sky
The spirit of prayer has strengthened all
Who live on that gory field,
Where patriots vow, on their unbought swords,
To die — but never to yield.