His serried ranks shall reel before And ye who breast the mountain storm your own gray cliffs that mock And ye, whose homes are by her grand Swift rivers, rising far away, Come from the depth of her green land Have swelled them over bank and bourn, And ye who throng, beside the deep, On his long murmuring marge of sand, Few, few were they whose swords, of old, But we are many, we who hold The grim resolve to guard it well. Strike for that broad and goodly land, Blow after blow, till men shall see That Might and Right move hand in hand, W. C. Bryant. CCCXXIII. NOT YET. COUNTRY, marvel of the earth! O realm to sudden greatness grown! The age that gloried in thy birth, Shall it behold thee overthrown? Shall traitors lay that greatness low? No, Land of Hope and Blessing, No! And we who wear thy glorious name, Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo! And they who founded, in our land, Knit they the gentle ties which long Our humming marts, our iron ways, Our wind-tossed woods on mountain crest, The hoarse Atlantic, with his bays, The calm, broad Ocean of the West, And Mississippi's torrent flow, And loud Niagara, answer, No! Not yet the hour is nigh, when they That mighty arm which none can stay — On clouds above and fields below, Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No! CCCXXIV. THE AMERICAN FLAG. AT last, at last, each glowing star In that pure field of heavenly blue, On every people shining far, Burns, to its utmost promise true. Hopes in our fathers' hearts that stirred, At last, at last, your day has dawned. Your day has dawned, but many an hour Of storm and cloud, of doubt and tears, Across the eternal sky must lower, Before the glorious noon appears. And not for us that noontide glow : For us the strife and toil shall be ; But welcome toil, for now we know Our children shall that glory see. W. C. Bryant. At last, at last, O Stars and Stripes! Out from our history its shame. Stand to your faith, America! Sad Europe listen to our call! That gracious flag floats over all. And when the hour seems dark with doom, Pure as its white the future see! G. W. Curtis. CCCXXV. AM I FOR PEACE? YES. FOR the peace which rings out from the cannons' throat, And the suasion of shot and shell, Till Rebellion's spirit is trampled down To the depths of its kindred hell. For the peace which shall follow the squadron's tramp, And, drunk with the fury of storm and strife, The blood-red chargers neigh. For the peace which shall wash out the leprous stain And shall sunder the fetters which creak and clank On the down-trodden dark man's limb. I will curse him as traitor, and false of heart, Out! out of the way! with your spurious peace, Out! out of the way! with your knavish schemes! Crouch away in the dark, like a sneaking hound You would barter the fruit of our fathers' blood, To purchase a place with Rebellion's votes, By the widow's wail, by the mother's tears, CCCXXVI. THE GREAT BELL ROLAND. TOLL! Roland, toll! In old St. Bavon's tower, At midnight hour, The great bell Roland spoke! All souls that slept in Ghent awoke ! What meant the thunder stroke? Why trembled wife and maid? Why caught each man his blade? Anonymous. |