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Beat ! beat ! drums !-blow! bugles ! blow!
prayer, Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's
entreaties, Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they
lie awaiting the hearses, So strong you thump, o terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.
OUR COUNTRY'S CALL. LAY down the axe, fling by the spade; }
Leave in its track the toiling plough; The rifle and the bayonet-blade
For arms like yours were fitter now; And let the hands that ply the pen
Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein
The charger on the battle-field. Our country calls ; away! away!
To where the blood-stream blots the green; Strike to defend the gentlest sway
That Time in all his course has seen. See, from a thousand coverts—see
Spring the armed foes that haunt her track; They rush to smite her down, and we
Must beat the banded traitors back. Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave,
And moved as soon to fear and flight, Men of the glade and forest ! leave
Your woodcraft for the field of fight.
The arms that wield the axe must pour
An iron tempest on the foe ; His serried ranks shall reel before
The arm that lays the panther low. And ye who breast the mountain storm
By grassy steep or highland lake,
A bulwark that no foe can break.
The whirlwind; stand in her defence :
As rushing squadrons bear ye thence.
Swift rivers, rising far away,
As mighty in your march as they ;
Have swelled them over bank and bourne, With sudden floods to drown the plains
And sweep along the woods uptorn, And ye who throng beside the deep,
Her ports and hamlets of the strand, In number like the waves that leap
On his long-murmuring marge of sand,
He rises, all his floods to pour,
A helpless wreck against his shore.
Won the fair land in which we dwell ; 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, And glorious must their triumph be.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
A CRY TO ARMS.
HO, woodsmen of the mountain-side!
Ho, dwellers in the vales !
Have roughened in the gales!
Lay by the bloodless spade ;
And burn your books of trade!
And till he flies or fears, Your fields must grow but armèd bands,
Your sheaves be sheaves of spears !
The useless tools of gain,
With floods of crimson rain !
With musket, pike, or knife;
Who lightest holds his life.
With all a patriot's scorn,
Or stab him with a thorn. Does any falter ? let him turn
To some brave maiden's eyes,
In those sublunar skies.
And in their spirit march,
Beneath the victor's arch!
When thoughts like these give cheer?
The lily calmly braves the storm,
And shall the palm-tree fear?
The rack that sweeps the plain;
Learn how to breast the strain.
Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side!
Ho, dwellers in the vales !
Have roughened in the gales !
From forest, hill, and lake;
NO MORE WORDS !
(Boston, April, 1861.) No more words;
Try it with your swords !
Not another word;
Try it by the throats
shaken; For they speak what they mean, and they cannot be mistaken ;
No more doubt;
No child's play!
Waste not a day; Serve out the deadliest weapons
No blind strife;
You that in the front
Bear the battle's bruntWhen the sun gleams at dawn on the bayonets
abreast, Remember 'tis for government and country you contest;
For love of all you guard,
You at home that stay
From danger far away, Leave not a jot to chance, while you rest in quiet
ease ; Quick! forge the bolts of death ; quick! ship them o'er the seas;
If War's feet are lame,
You, my lads, abroad,
"Steady!” be your word ; You, at home, be the anchor of your soldiers young
and brave; Spare no cost, none is lost, that may strengthen or may save;
Sloth were sin and shame;