"For they gat not the land in possession by their own sword; neither was it their own arm that helped them; but Thy right hand, and Thine arm, and the light of Thy countenance, because Thou hadst a favor unto them."--Psalm, xliv. 3, 4.

I.

Now blessed be the Lord of Hosts through all our Southern land,
And blessed be His holy name, in whose great might we stand;
For He who loves the voice of prayer hath heard His people's cry,
And with His own almighty arm hath won the victory!
Oh, tell it out through hearth and home, from blue Potomac's wave
To those far waters of the West which hide De Soto's grave.

II.

Now let there be through all the land one grand triumphant cry,
Wherever beats a Southern heart, or glows a Southern sky;
For He who ruleth every fight hath been with us to-day,
And the great God of battles hath led the glorious fray;
Oh, then unto His holy name ring out the joyful song,
The race hath not been to the swift, the battle to the strong.

III.

From royal Hudson's cliff-crowned banks, from proud Ohio's flood,
From that dark rock in Plymouth's bay where erst the pilgrims stood,
From East and North, from far and near, went forth the gathering cry,
And the countless hordes came swarming on with fierce and lustful eye.
In the great name of Liberty each thirsty sword is drawn;
In the great name of Liberty each tyrant presseth on.

IV.

Alas, alas! her sacred name is all dishonored now,
And blood-stained hands are tearing off each laurel from her brow;
But ever yet rings out the cry, in loud and mocking tone,
Still in her holy shrine they strive to rear a despot's throne;
And pressing on with eager tread, they sweep across the land,
To burn and havoc and destroy--a fierce and ruthless band.

V.

I looked on fair Potomac's shore, and at my feet the while
The sparkling waves leaped gayly up to meet glad summer's smile;
And pennons gay were floating there, and banners fair to see,
A mighty host arrayed, I ween, in war's proud panoply;
And as I gazed a cry arose, a low, deep-swelling hum,
And loud and stern along the line broke in the sullen drum.

VI.

Onward, o'er fair Virginia's fields, through ranks of nodding grain,
With shout and song they sweep along, a gay and gallant train.
Oh, ne'er, I ween, had those broad plains beheld a fairer sight,
And clear and glad those skies of June shed forth their glorious light.
Onwards, yea, ever onwards, that mighty host hath passed,
And "On to Richmond!" is the cry which echoes on the blast.

VII.

I looked again, the rising sun shines down upon the moors,
And 'neath his beams rise ramparts high and frowning embrasures,
And on each proud abattis yawn, with menace stern and dread,
Grim-visaged messengers of death: the watchful sentry's tread
In measured cadence slowly falls; all Nature seems at ease,
And over all the Stars and Stripes are floating in the breeze.

VIII.

But far away another line is stretching dark and long,
Another flag is floating free where armed legions throng;
Another war-cry's on the air, as wakes the martial drum,
And onward still, in serried ranks, the Southern soldiers come,
And up to that abattis high the charging' columns tread,
And bold and free the Stars and Bars are waving at their head.

IX.

They are on it! they are o'er it! who can stay that living flood?
Lo, ever swelling, rolleth on the weltering tide of blood.
Yet another and another is full boldly stormed and won,
And forward to the spoiler's camp the column presseth on.
Hurrah! hurrah! the field is won! we'e met them man to man,
And ever still the Stars and Bars are riding in the van.

X.

They are flying! they are flying! and close upon their track
Comes our glorious "Stonewall" Jackson, with ten thousand at his back;
And Longstreet, too, and gallant Hill, and Rhodes, and brave Huger,[1]
And he whose name is worth a host, our bold, devoted Lee;
And back to where the lordly James his scornful billow rolls,
The recreant foe is fleeing fast--those men of dastard souls.

XI.

They are flying! they are flying! horse and foot, and bold dragoon,
In one refluent mass are mingled, 'neath the slowly waning moon;
And louder still the cry is heard, as borne upon the blast,
The shouts of the pursuing host are rising full and fast:
"On, on unto the river, 'tis our only chance for life!
We needs must reach the gunboats, or we perish in the strife!"

XII.

'Tis done! the gory field is ours; we've conquered in the fight!
And yet once more our tongues can tell the triumph of the right;
And humbled is the haughty foe, who our destruction sought,
For God's right hand and holy arm have great deliverance wrought.
Oh, then, unto His holy name ring out the joyful song--
The race has not been to the swift, the battle to the strong.

[1] Pronounced Eujee