Whoso shrinks or falters now,
Whoso to the yoke would bow,
Brand the craven on his brow.
Freedom's soil has only place
For a free and fearless race—
None for traitors false and base.
Perish party—perish clan;
Strike together while you can,
Like the strong arm of one man.
Like the angel's voice sublime,
Heard above a world of crime,
Crying for the end of Time.
With one heart and with one mouth,
Let the North speak to the South;
Speak the word befitting both.
J. G. Whittier.
CCCXXXI.
THE WATCHERS.
Beside a stricken field I stood;
On the torn turf, on grass and wood,
Hung heavily the dew of blood.
Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain,
But all the air was quick with pain
And gusty sighs and tearful rain.
Two angels, each with drooping head
And folded wings and noiseless tread,
Watched by that valley of the dead.