Sad sowers trod who taste not the increase:
We hear thy trump, whose echo shall not cease,
In hush of night resounding, while we meet
Around unthreatened fires, but pressing fleet
Thou passest, proud, to claim thy kin’s release;
Thy trump, that doth arraign the entombèd Past,
Till shapes that march as if with martyr-psalm
In glow and gloom of kindly hearths we see:
And now to present war a keener blast
Calls loud, and spirits late content and calm