I will curse him as traitor, and false of heart,
Who would shrink from the conflict now,
And will stamp it, with blistering, burning brand,
On his vitreous, Cain-like brow.
Out! out of the way! with your spurious peace,
Which would make us Rebellion's slaves;
We will rescue our land from the traitorous grasp,
Or cover it with our graves.
Out! out of the way! with your knavish schemes!
You trembling and trading pack!
Crouch away in the dark, like a sneaking hound
That its master has beaten back.
You would barter the fruit of our fathers' blood,
And sell out the Stripes and Stars,
To purchase a place with Rebellion's votes,
Or escape from Rebellion's scars.
By the widow's wail, by the mother's tears,
By the orphans who cry for bread,
By our sons who fell, we will never yield
Till Rebellion's soul is dead.
Anonymous.
CCCXXVI.
THE GREAT BELL ROLAND.
Toll! Roland, toll!
In Old St. Bavon's tower,
At midnights hour,
The great bell Roland spoke!
All souls that slept in Ghent awoke!
What meant the thunder stroke?
Why trembled wife and maid?
Why caught each man his blade?
Why echoed every street
With tramp of thronging feet
All flying to the city's wall?
It was the warning call
That Freedom stood in peril of a foe!
And even timid hearts grew bold
Whenever Roland tolled,
And every hand a sword could hold!
So acted men
Like patriots then,
Three hundred years ago!
Toll! Roland, toll!
Bell never yet was hung,
Between whose lips there swung
So grand a tongue!
If men be patriots still,
At thy first sound
True hearts will bound,
Great souls will thrill!
Then toll and strike the test
Through each man's breast,
Till loyal hearts shall stand confess'd,—
And may God's wrath smite all the rest!
Toll! Roland, toll!
Not now in old St. Bavon's tower-Not
now at midnight hour—
Not now from River Scheldt to Zuyder Zee,
But here,—this side the sea!—.
Toll here, in broad, bright day!-For
not by night awaits
A noble foe without the gates,
But perjured friends within betray,
And do the deed at noon!
Toll! Roland, toll!
Thy sound is not too soon!
To Arms! Ring out the Leader's call!
Reëcho it from East to West,
Till every hero's breast
Shall swell beneath a soldier's crest!
Toll! Roland, toll!
Till cottager from cottage wall
Snatch pouch and powder-horn and gun!
The sire bequeathed them to the son,
When only half their work was done!
Toll! Roland, toll!
Till swords from scabbards leap!
Toll! Roland, toll!
What tears can widows weep
Less bitter than when brave men fall?
Toll! Roland, toll!
In shadowed hut and small
Shall lie the soldier's pall,
And hearts shall break while graves are filled!
Amen! So God has willed!
And may his grace anoint us all!