There is night in the council chamber,
There is gloom where the Rebels meet,
There is death in the valley beneath them,
And over their arms is defeat.

The lines that were throbbing with valor,
Have missed her white star in its sheen,
And the heels of the dastard deserter
Press hard in the spaces between.

The glance of the council is eager,
But the voice of the General is low;
He is seeking the bravest, the truest,
To send in the camps of the foe.

The silence of death is the answer,
A scorn and a flash of the eye,
For these bronzed, rugged heroes of battles
Will not stoop to the rank of a spy .

But a voice rings out from the shadow,
With the thrill of a clarion's flow:
" When my country has need, 't is my service,
Her honor is mine, — I will go! "

And in the first flush of his manhood,
The patriot burns in his eyes,
As he changes the trappings of glory
And fame for the lowly disguise.

On, he speeds through the veil of the darkness!
The camp of the British is won.
Ay, the fate of the rebels is trembling,
But the dangerous mission is done!

He has served her, the country he lives for,
Would die for, need that be the end,
But halt! — to the ringing of hoof-beats,
Betrayed, — by the hand of a friend!

Men die in the hot blood of battle,
And rot in the trench, face to face,
But oh! those long hours of anguish,
The taunt of dishonor, disgrace!

Ah! patriot, soldier and lover!
Thy warriors call thee again,
And far o'er the hills, for the bridal,
She watches thy coming, in vain!

The sigh of the waning September
Breaks soft on the blush of the sky;
While the grim forms of British are waiting,
To mark how a Rebel can die.

No hand bears the last tender missives,
That filled up the long night of woe;
They have hurled the white fragments about him,
That fall like the sleet upon snow;

For those blue eyes look outward, beyond them,
Above the gray world and its moan;
But no priest bends the knee for the shriving,
The soul in its grandeur is lone.

They have bound the brave form for the hangman,
And pinioned the strong arms for death,
But afar, from the old apple orchard,
New born, on a patriot's breath,

The hills pipe a sonorous message,
The breezes repeat, by the sea,
" I only regret, oh! my Country!
I lose but this one life for thee! "

Oh! mother-land, these are thy jewels,
That blazon the shield on thy breast!
Oh! mother-love! these are the truest,
The hearts that have loved thee the best!