But this—the one that gave thee birth A hundred years ago, O beauteous mother! This mighty Century had a mightier brother, Who from the watching earth Passed but last year! Twin-born indeed were they— For what are twelve months to the womb of time Pregnant with ages?—Hand in hand they climbed With clear, young eyes uplifted to the stars; With great, strong souls that never stopped for bars, Through storm and darkness up to glorious day! Each knew the other’s need; each in his breast The subtle tie of closest kin confessed; Counted the other’s honor as his own; Nor feared to sit upon a separate throne; Nor loved each other less when—wondrous fate!— One gave a Nation life, and one a State!
VI.
Oh! rude the cradle in which each was rocked, The infant Nation, and the infant State! Rough nurses were the Centuries, that mocked At mother-kisses, and for mother-arms Gave their young nurslings sudden harsh alarms, Quick blows and stern rebuffs. They bade them wait, Often in cold and hunger, while the feast Was spread for others, and, though last not least, Gave them sharp swords for playthings, and the din Of actual battle for the mimic strife That childhood glories in! Yet not the less they loved them. Spartans they, Who could not rear a weak, effeminate brood. Better the forest’s awful solitude, Better the desert spaces, where the day Wanders from dawn to dusk and finds no life!
VII.
But over all the tireless years swept on, Till side by side the Centuries grew old, And the young Nation, great and strong and bold, Forgot its early struggles, in triumphs later won! It stretched its arms from East to West; It gathered to its mighty breast From every clime, from every soil, The hunted sons of want and toil; It gave to each a dwelling-place; It blent them in one common race; And over all, from sea to sea, Wide flew the banner of the free! It did not fear the wrath of kings, Nor the dread grip of deadlier things— Gaunt Famine with its ghastly horde, Dishonor sheathing its foul sword, Nor faithless friend, nor treacherous blow Struck in the dark by stealthy foe; For over all its wide domain, From shore to shore, from main to main, From vale to mountain-top, it saw The reign of plenty, peace, and law!
VIII.
Thus fared the Nation, prosperous, great, and free, Prophet and herald of the good to be; And on its humbler way, in calm content, The lesser State, the while, serenely went. Safe in her mountain fastnesses she dwelt, Her life’s first cares forgot, its woes unfelt, And thought her bitterest tears had all been shed, For peace was in her borders, and God reigned overhead.
IX.
But suddenly over the hills there came A cry that rent her with grief and shame— A cry from the Nation in sore distress, Stricken down in the pride of its mightiness! With passionate ardor up she sprang, And her voice like the peal of a trumpet rang— “What ho! what ho! brave sons of mine, Strong with the strength of the mountain pine! To the front of the battle, away! away! The Nation is bleeding in deadly fray, The Nation, it may be, is dying to-day! On, then, to the rescue! away! away!”