Poems of American Patriotism Part 10

"Time Was unlocks the riddle of Time Is, That offers choice of glory or of gloom; The solver makes Time Shall Be surely his.

But hasten, Sisters! for even now the tomb Grates its slow hinge and calls from the abyss."

"But not for him," I cried, "not yet for him, Whose large horizon, westering, star by star Wins from the void to where on Ocean's rim The sunset shuts the world with golden bar, Not yet his thews shall fail, his eye grow dim!"

"His shall be larger manhood, saved for those That walk unblenching through the trial-fires; Not suffering, but faint heart, is worst of woes, And he no base-born son of craven sires, Whose eye need blench confronted with his foes."

"Tears may be ours, but proud, for those who win Death's royal purple in the foeman's lines; Peace, too, brings tears; and 'mid the battle-din, The wiser ear some text of G.o.d divines, For the sheathed blade may rust with darker sin."

"G.o.d, give us peace! not such as lulls to sleep, But sword on thigh, and brow with purpose knit!

And let our s.h.i.+p of State to harbor sweep, Her ports all up, her battle-lanterns lit, And her leashed thunders gathering for their leap!"

So cried I with clenched hands and pa.s.sionate pain, Thinking of dear ones by Potomac's side; Again the loon laughed mocking, and again The echoes bayed far down the night and died, While waking I recalled my wandering brain.

BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC

JULIA WARD HOWE

[Sidenote: Nov., 1861]

_This war-song was written to the tune of "John Brown's Body,"--a tune to which many thousands of Volunteers were marching to the front._

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.

His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with His heel, Since G.o.d is marching on."

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat: Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!

Our G.o.d is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free.

While G.o.d is marching on.

AT PORT ROYAL

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

[Sidenote: 1861]

The tent-lights glimmer on the land, The s.h.i.+p-lights on the sea; The night-wind smooths with drifting sand Our track on lone Tybee.

At last our grating keels outslide, Our good boats forward swing; And while we ride the land-locked tide, Our negroes row and sing.

For dear the bondman holds his gifts Of music and of song: The gold that kindly Nature sifts Among his sands of wrong;

The power to make his toiling days And poor home-comforts please; The quaint relief of mirth that plays With sorrow's minor keys.

Another glow than sunset's fire Has filled the West with light, Where field and garner, barn and byre, Are blazing through the night.

The land is wild with fear and hate, The rout runs mad and fast; From hand to hand, from gate to gate, The flaming brand is pa.s.sed.

The lurid glow falls strong across Dark faces broad with smiles; Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss That fire yon blazing piles.

With oar-strokes timing to their song, They weave in simple lays The pathos of remembered wrong, The hope of better days,--

The triumph-note that Miriam sung, The joy of uncaged birds: Softening with Afric's mellow tongue Their broken Saxon words.

SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN

O, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come To set de people free; An' ma.s.sa tink it day ob doom, An' we ob jubilee.

De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves He jus' as 'trong as den; He say de word: we las' night slaves; To-day, de Lord's freemen.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn: O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!

Ole ma.s.sa on he trabbels gone; He leaf de land behind; De Lord's breff blow him furder on, Like corn-shuck in de wind.

We own de hoe, we own de plough, We own de hands dat hold; We sell de pig, we sell de cow, But nebber chile be sold.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn: O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!

We pray de Lord: he gib us signs Dat some day we be free; De norf-wind tell it to de pines, De wild-duck to de sea; We tink it when de church-bell ring, We dream it in de dream; De rice-bird mean it when he sing, De eagle when he scream.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn: O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!

We know de promise nebber fail, An' nebber lie de word; So like de 'postles in de jail, We waited for de Lord: An' now he open ebery door An' trow away de key; He tink we lub him so before, We lub him better free.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow, He'll gib de rice an' corn: O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!

So sing our dusky gondoliers; And with a secret pain, And smiles that seem akin to tears, We hear the wild refrain.

We dare not share the negro's trust, Nor yet his hope deny; We only know that G.o.d is just, And every wrong shall die.

Rude seems the song; each swarthy face Flame-lighted, ruder still: We start to think that hapless race Must shape our good or ill;

That laws of changeless justice bind Oppressor with oppressed; And, close as sin and suffering joined, We march to Fate abreast.

Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall be Our sign of blight or bloom,-- The Vala-song of Liberty, Or death-rune of our doom!

READY

PHOEBE CARY