CONFLICT OF THE AGES: by S. F.

THE bugle calls! while far and near The gathering hosts are marching by; Their clanging arms, their tread I hear, The sounds which tell the strife is nigh. To arms! to arms! each loyal heart Responsive trembles at the call! Each valorous soul will do his part To win the victory for all. 'Tis not for selfish worldly gain, For cross or crescent, king or crown, They marshal on the battle plain To strike the bold usurper down. It is no mortal foe they seek— No Brother's blood they wish to spill, Nor strong that triumph o'er the weak— Their good to gain through other's ill. Ah no! the world has never yet Been called to arm for such a fray, Nor e'er such countless hosts have met As those that bear the sword today. 'Tis hidden Forces they oppose— A subtle Power that rules the earth— While Nature shudders in her throes To bring the Savior, Truth, to birth. And 'tis not only men's weak hands Which bear aloft the spear and lance— Lo! o'er the plains the Master's bands With swift and noiseless feet advance. The Helpers of mankind are They— Great Elder Brothers of the Race! At dawning of the grand New Day Each Warrior stands within his place. The Order of the Ages New Has come at last in dawning Light— Its soldiers neither weak nor few— And they are armed with God's own might. In vain the hosts of Darkness rise And shriek aloud their battle cry! The dawn of Truth lights all the skies And crime and wrong and fraud shall die.