"'_On_--to the glorious conflict--ON!'-- Is heard throughout the land, While flashing columns, thick and strong, Sweep by with swelling band. 'Our country, right or wrong,' they shout, 'Shall still our motto he: With _this_ we are prepared to rout Our foes from sea to sea. Our own right arms to us shall bring The victory and the spoils; And Montezuma's halls shall ring, When there we end our toils.' ON, then, ye brave' like tigers rage, That you may win your crown, Mowing both infancy and age In ruthless carnage down. Where flows the tide of life and light, Amid the city's hum, There let the cry, at dead of night, Be heard, 'They come, they come!' Mid scenes of sweet domestic bliss, Pour shells of livid fire, While red-hot balls among them hiss, To make the work entire And when the scream of agony Is heard above the din, _Then_ ply your guns with energy, And throw your columns in Thro' street and lane, thro' house and church, The sword and faggot hear, And every inmost recess search, To fill with shrieks the air Where waving fields and smiling homes Now deck the sunny plain, And laughter-loving childhood roams Unmoved by care or pain; Let famine gaunt and grim despair Behind you stalk along, And pestilence taint all the air With victims from the strong Let dogs from mangled beauty's cheeks The flesh and sinews tear, And craunch the bones around for weeks, And gnaw the skulls till bare Let vultures gather round the heaps Made up of man and beast, And, while the widowed mother weeps, Indulge their horrid feast, Till, startled by wild piteous groans, On dreary wings they rise, To come again, mid dying moans, And tear out glazing eyes _Tho'_ widows' tears, and orphans' cries, When starving round the spot Where much-loved forms once met their eyes Which now are left to rot, With trumpet-tongue, for vengeance call Upon each guilty head That drowns, mid revelry and brawls, Remembrance of the dead. _Tho'_ faint from fighting--wounded--wan, To camp you'll turn your feet, And no sweet, smiling, happy home, Your saddened hearts will greet: No hands of love--no eyes of light-- Will make your wants their care, Or soothe you thro' the dreary night, Or smooth your clotted hair. But crushed by sickness, famine, thirst, You'll strive in vain to sleep, Mid corpses mangled, blackened, burst, And blood and mire deep; While horrid groans, and fiendish yells, And every loathsome stench, Will kindle images of hell You'll strive in vain to quench. Yet _on_--press on, in all your might, With banners to the field, And mingle in the glorious fight, With Satan for your shield: For marble columns, if you die, _May_ on them bear your name; While papers, tho' they sometimes lie, Will praise you, or will blame. Yet woe! to those who build a house, Or kingdom, not by right,-- Who in their feebleness propose Against the Lord to fight. For when the Archangel's trumpet sounds,