Guns of the Gettysburg heights, ye spake, in your awful contending,
Words ye spake through the cloud, with august oracular voices,
Mighty reverberant watchwords of Titan-forces in conflict:
Crying, “The feuds of States!” and replying, “The peace of a Nation!”
Crying, “The sundered stars!” and replying, “The heavens in their clusters
Led in the lines of law, and linked in their differing glory
Star unto star to the end, until God folds them up as a vesture!”
Crying, “The old-time pride, and the chivalrous grace and the splendor,
Feudal rule of the Few, and a serfdom meet for the Many!”
Thundering out of the cloud, as the Voice on the summit of Sinai,