THE MORAL WARFARE by John Greenleaf Whittier

WHEN Freedom, on her natal day,

Within her war-rocked cradle lay,

An iron race around her stood,

Baptized her infant brow in blood;

And, through the storm which round her swept,

Their constant ward and watching kept.

Then, where our quiet herds repose,

The roar of baleful battle rose,

And brethren of a common tongue

To mortal strife as tigers sprung,

And every gift on Freedom's shrine

Was man for beast, and blood for wine!

Our fathers to their graves have gone;

Their strife is past, their triumph won;

But sterner trials wait the race

Which rises in their honored place;

A moral warfare with the crime

And folly of an evil time.

So let it be. In God's own might

We gird us for the coming fight,

And, strong in Him whose cause is ours

In conflict with unholy powers,

We grasp the weapons He has given,—

The Light, and Truth, and Love of Heaven.