A TRIBUTE OF SYMPATHY TO THE DEFENDERS OF GLEN LYNDEN.

Away! Away! Away! There are patriot voices calling! Glen Lynden’s band Holds the foe in hand, Though its watch-worn sons are falling. Away to the mountain glen! Where the warwhoop wild is yelling, And the savage howls As he darkly scowls On the white man’s flame-wrapped dwelling. There is life-blood reeking there! Where our slaughtered friends are lying; Not boldly slain On the battle-plain, But each by his hearth-stone dying. Away Away! Away! To horse, to rifle springing, While the widow’s sigh And the orphan’s cry In our ears,—in our hearts are ringing! They were dwelling in peaceful vales, Nor fear nor danger knowing; ’Midst their flocks spread wide O’er the mountain side, And milk and honey flowing. The vine and the fig-tree’s cheer;— The cornfields waving gladness, The shearer’s throng, And the reaper’s song Left cause nor room for sadness. There was childhood’s guileless glee,— There was maiden beauty blooming; There was ripe old age, With its wisdom sage, And its honour,—life perfuming. And there were thankful hearts For peace and plenty given; The voice of prayer Ascended there And the song of praise to heaven. And where are they now?—Ah! where? There are homeless orphans weeping; The widow’s wail Is on the gale, The sire in his gore lies sleeping. . . . . . . . . . . And are there dastard souls, Whose homes these homes were shielding, Who can coldly read While their brothers bleed, Nor aid nor pity yielding? Brand “Coward” on his brow! Write “Traitor” on his bearing, Who views from afar Our “homestead” war, And basely shrinks from sharing! To your arms! To your arms! Away! What! cease from the strife?—No, never! Till the neck of the foe, To earth bent low, We have conquered a peace FOR EVER! Rev. H. H. Dugmore. 1851.