When battle waves her falchion gory,
Over the dead on sea or land,
And one proud heart receives the glory,
Won by the blood of many a band,
If the hero's prayer to thee,
From his fading lips be given,
Awake his heart to ecstacy,
With brightest hopes of heaven.

Madonna! on whose bosom slumber'd,
The infant, Christ, with sunny brow,
The viewless hours have pass'd unnumber'd,
Since we adored thy shrine as now;
But not the gorgeous sky,
Nor the blue expansive sea,
To us such beauty could supply,
As that which hallow'd thee!

And when the scenes of life are faded
From our dim eyes like phantom-things,
When gentlest hearts with gloom are shaded,
And cease to thrill at Fancy's strings,
_Thou_, like the rainbow's form,
When summer skies are dark,
Shalt give thy light amid the storm,
And guide the Wanderer's bark!

G.R. CARTER.