John Pierpont

From every place below the skies The grateful song, the fervent prayer,— The incense of the heart, —may rise To heaven, and find acceptance there.

A weapon that comes down as still As snowflakes fall upon the sod; But executes a freeman's will, As lightning does the will of God; And from its force nor doors nor locks Can shield you,—'t is the ballot-box.

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle-peal!