With thy good weapons as is fit,
And every foe defy.

Then arm and stand upon thy guard,

Firm against every foe;

The weapons aimed at thee ward,
Nor strike the earliest blow.

January, 1860.

THE GROWTH OF OPINION.

Opinion is of recent growth,

Not long its root was planted;

Now leaves and bloom it has them both,

Only the fruit is wanted.

And that ere long shall gathered be

(No hindrances letting)

Upon that goodly spreading tree

Where now the bloom is setting.

Then be it ours the tree to tend,
And prune it while we cherish,
And from the blast its leaves defend,

For fear its fruit should perish.

An infant tree it is as yet,
Though a strong life possessing,
But when its perfect strength is set
No outward thing shall lessen.

And when matured that noble tree
In life developed living,

Beneath its shade the wise shall be
Laws to the nations giving.

January, 1806.

TO THE QUEEN.

The viper biting at the file,

As harmless ill to do,

As were the word of slander vile,
If Lady aimed at you.

But there is not the will to harm,
So good so true a name,
Dispelleth evil like a charm,
And wardeth slander's aim.

The sceptre in thy gentle hand,
(How fair without a glove!)

Is not a weapon of command,
A token 'tis of love.

A title to our love thou hast,
Which time cannot erase,

Based on the memory of the Past,
And hope of brighter days.

Of brighter, though the past were bright
Hope still for brighter prays,
And gilds the future with its light,
Bright as of summer days.

Forgive the hand which these indites,
These rude and artless lines,

It is a loyal hand which writes,
A loyal hand which signs.

January, 1860.

When the steed the battle smelleth,
When he hears the trumpet peal,
Starting at the sound he yelleth,

Striking out with furious heel.

With his foot the clod he breaketh,
Driving far the summer dust,

With his shrieks the echoes waketh,
Louder than the northern gust.

As the distant cannon soundeth,
As the ringing rifles play,
O'er the meadow's fence he boundeth
To the battle field away.

The far booming cannon guiding,
Off he dashes like the wind,
With his cries the echoes chiding,
Till the cherished spot he find.

Onward, onward, never resting,
Till the thickest of the fight,
Guns and bayonets he is breasting,
With his foam all over white.

January, 1860.

THE ORGAN.

I love the music of the organ's notes,
Which o'er the ceiling of the temple floats,

Loud as the thunder now when summer reigns,
Now soft and thrilling as the woodland strains.

To worship consecrated and to praise,

The hearts of men to heaven those notes do raise,
Above their common earthly sorrows raise,
To heaven the seat of everlasting praise.

How melts the heart subdued by music's power,
Soothing its sorrow in affliction's hour,
Lends wings to praise until the heaven it scales,
And the bright presence of the angels hails.

How sweet to hear the notes the organ pours
On Sabbath mornings through the temple's doors,
Standing within the porch when anthems rise
From grateful hearts a chorus to the skies.

As peals the music set to sacred words,
It blendeth with the melody of birds,
In one grand chorus all the voices blend,
And through the purple vault to heaven ascend;

And there with angel's harps and voices chime, A flood of song and melody sublime,

The grateful tribute of adoring souls, Whose free, full tide for ever onward rolls. January, 1860.