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The Ballot.


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(From the Globe.)
By J. E. Dow
Air, "Bonnie Doon," page 54.

Dread sovereign, thou! the chainless will —
Thy source the nation's mighty heart —
The ballot box thy cradle still —
Thou speak'st, and nineteen millions start;
Thy subjects, sons of noble sires,
Descendants of a patriot band —
Thy lights a million's household fires —
Thy daily walk, my native land.

And shall the safeguard of the free,
By valor won on gory plains,
Become a solemn mockery
While freemen breathe and virtue reigns?
Shall liberty be bought and sold
By guilty creatures clothed with power?
Is honor but a name for gold,
And principle a withered flower?

The parricide's accursed steel
Has pierced thy sacred sovereignty,
And all who think, and all who feel,
Must act or never more be free.
No party chains shall bind us here;
No mighty name shall turn the blow;
Then, wounded sovereignty, appear,
And lay the base apostates low.

The wretch, with hands by murder red,
May hope for mercy at the last;
And he who steals a nation's bread,
May have oblivion's statute passed.
But he who steals a sacred right,
And brings his native land to scorn,
Shall die a traitor in her sight,
With none to pity or to mourn.