“Give us a man of God’s own mould, Born to marshal his fellow-men; One whose fame is not bought and sold At the stroke of a politician’s pen; Give us the man of thousands ten, Fit to do as well as to plan; Give us a rallying-cry, and then, Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN! “No leader to shirk the boasting foe, And to march and countermarch our brave, Till they fall like ghosts in the marshes low, And swamp-grass covers each nameless grave; Nor another, whose fatal banners wave Aye in Disaster’s shameful van; Nor another, to bluster, and lie, and rave;— Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN! “Hearts are mourning in the North, While the sister rivers seek the main, Red with our life-blood flowing forth,— Who shall gather it up again? Though we march to the battle-plain Firmly as when the strife began, Shall all our offering be in vain?— Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN! “Is there never one in all the land, One on whose might the Cause may lean? Are all the common ones so grand, And all the titled ones so mean? What if your failure may have been In trying to make good bread from bran, From worthless metal a weapon keen?— Abraham Lincoln, find us a MAN! “O, we will follow him to the death, Where the foeman’s fiercest columns are! O, we will use our latest breath, Cheering for every sacred star! His to marshal us high and far; Ours to battle, as patriots can When a Hero leads the Holy War!— Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!” September 8, 1862. TREASON’S LAST DEVICE. Sons of New England, in the fray, Do you hear the clamor behind your back? Do you hear the yelping of Blanche, and Tray, Sweetheart, and all the mongrel pack? Girded well with her ocean crags, Little our mother heeds their noise; Her eyes are fixed on crimsoned flags: But you—do you hear it, Yankee boys? Do you hear them say that the patriot fire Burns on her altars too pure and bright, To the darkened heavens leaping higher, Though drenched with the blood of every fight; That in the light of its searching flame Treason and tyrants stand revealed, And the yielding craven is put to shame, On Capitol floor or foughten field? Do you hear the hissing voice, which saith That she—who bore through all the land The lyre of Freedom, the torch of Faith, And young Invention’s mystic wand— Should gather her skirts and dwell apart, With not one of her sisters to share her fate,— A Hagar, wandering sick at heart; A pariah, bearing the Nation’s hate? Sons, who have peopled the distant West, And planted the Pilgrim vine anew, Where, by a richer soil carest, It grows as ever its parent grew, Say, do you hear,—while the very bells Of your churches ring with her ancient voice, And the song of your children sweetly tells How true was the land of your fathers’ choice,—