Jesus, to thy great name we raise A house of penitence and praise, A beacon for the wanderers’ bark, To guide it home through storm and dark. Here shall ambition’s fever cease, Sin’s wretched slaves find sweet release, And washed in Jordan’s cleansing wave Rise from the Christian’s mystic grave. Hence bid our earth-born cares depart, Heal every aching, bleeding heart, Dispel the clouds of doubt and dread And feed us with thy living Bread. Father, Redeemer, Guide and Friend, Go with us to our Journey’s end, Until we hail in Paradise The nobler Bethel of the skies. [Illustration: GENERAL JOHN H. MORGAN, C. S. A.] JOHN MORGAN AND HIS MEN. DEDICATED TO MRS. BASIL DUKE. Wild disorder, uproar, panic, Civil war with deeds Satanic Break Kentucky’s dream--Neutrality-- Everywhere war’s stern reality Drum and fife and bugle-playing-- Terrors breeding; fears allaying-- For various hopes and fears are rife In the wild rage of civil strife; When son and sire in contest stand, Each loyal to his native land, Obeying many-voiced command; One loyal to the stripes and stars-- One faithful to the stars and bars! There curls the smoke of burning train! There leaguered stockades fight in vain-- War glows on hill and glen. Fat cattle to the camp are led, The farmer mourns his thoroughbred. They quickly came, as quickly fled; Swift as an Indian arrow sped-- The Southron’s joy, the Federal’s dread-- John Morgan and his men? Loved and obeyed by his command, With woman’s heart and lion’s hand-- The Sydney of the Southern land John Harper’s thoroughbreds forsake The turf of Woodford’s old cane-brake; And walnut, oak and hackberry grove, To track the bridle paths that rove High o’er the caves of Edmonson-- The treeless fields without a sun! And bear the bold Rough Riders on Where trains are seized and treasures won. Dark Echo River’s weeping wave Shall mourn beneath the warrior’s grave, The dauntless partisan who rode Right on through storm and snow and flood. The foe exclaims, “He’s here!” “He’s there!” Vanished like spectres in the air, Trackless, save for the empty stall, Or smoke wreath rising like a pall Over the commissary’s store, Where hungry comrades loud deplore The thunderbolt of Morgan’s raid-- Chief of th’ Invisible Brigade, Vanished, like morning rainbow, spun By golden distaff of the sun.