To My Mother

TO MY MOTHER. BY A

I am writing to you, mother, knowing well what you will say
When you read, with tearful fondness, all I write to you to-day:
Knowing well the flame of ardor—a loyal mother’s part—
That will kindle with each impulse, with each throbbing of your heart.
I have heard my country calling for her sons that still are true—
I have loved that country, mother, only next to God and you—
And my heart is springing forward to resist her bitter foe:
I am going, dearest mother, and will strike for her a blow!

From the battered walls of Sumpter, from the wild waves of the sea,
I have heard her cry for succor—the voice of God to me.
In prosperity I loved her—in her days of dark distress,
With your spirit in me, mother, could I love that country less?
They have pierced her heart with treason, they have caused her sons to bleed;
They have robbed her in her kindness, they have triumphed in her need;
They have trampled on her standard, and she calls me in her woe:
I am going, dearest mother, and will strike for her a blow!

I am young, my dearest mother—they would call me but a boy—
But I love the land I live in, and the blessings I enjoy.
I am old enough, my mother, to be loyal, proud and true—
To be faithful is a duty I have oft been taught by you.
We must conquer this rebellion, let the doubting heart be still;
We must conquer it or perish—we must conquer, and we will.
But the faithful must not falter, and shall I be wanting? No!
I am going, dearest mother, and will strike for her a blow!