O Christian America! O New England, child of the Puritans! Cradled in the wilderness, thy swaddling garments stained with martyrs' blood, hearing in thy youth the warwhoop of the savage and thy mother's sweet and soul-composing hymn: "Hush, my child, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed; Heavenly blessings, without number, Rest upon thine infant head:" Come, New England, take the old banners of thy conquering host, the standards borne at Monterey, Palo Alto, Buena Vista, Vera Cruz, the "glorious stripes and stars" that waved over the walls of Churubusco, Contreras, Puebla, Mexico herself, flags blackened with battle and stiffened with blood, pierced by the lances and torn with the shot; bring them into thy churches, hang them up over altar and pulpit, and let little children, clad in white raiment and crowned with flowers, come and chant their lessons for the day: "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. "Blessed are the peace-makers, for they shall be called the children of God." Then let the priest say, "Righteousness exalteth a nation, but sin is a reproach unto any people. Blessed is the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight. Happy is that people that is in such a case. Yea, happy is that people whose God is the Lord, and Jesus Christ their Saviour." Then let the soldiers who lost their limbs and the women who lost their husbands and their lovers in the strife, and the men--wiser than the children of light--who made money out of the war; let all the people, like people and like priest, say "Amen." * * * * *