Call us through the throats of all brave bugles
Blown on fields foregone by lips forgotten;
Nerve us with the courage of lost comrades,
Gird us, lead us,
Thou, O Prince of Peace and God of Battles!
THE THIRD DAY AT GETTYSBURG
I
Stand we awhile at gaze, in the Place of the Battle of Battles:
High on the hill at the south, where over the fair-lying farmland
Warren keeps watch in bronze, here under the sky of the summer