XV.
Arise, O noble mother of great sons, Worthy to rank among earth’s mightiest ones, And daughters fair and beautiful and good, Yet wise and strong in loftiest womanhood— Rise from thy throne, and, standing far and high Outlined against the blue, adoring sky, Lift up thy voice, and stretch thy loving hands In benediction o’er the waiting lands! Take thou our fealty! at thy feet we bow, Glad to renew each oft-repeated vow! No costly gifts we bring to thee to-day; No votive wreaths upon thy shrine we lay; Take thou our hearts, then!—hearts that fain would be From this day forth, O goddess, worthier thee!
GETTYSBURG
1863-1889
I.
Brothers, is this the spot? Let the drums cease to beat; Let the tread of marching feet, With the clash and clang of steel And the trumpet’s long appeal (Cry of joy and sob of pain In its passionate refrain) Cease awhile, Nor beguile Thoughts that would rehearse the story Of the past’s remembered glory; Thoughts that would revive to-day Stern War’s rude, imperious sway; Waken battle’s fiery glow With its ardor and its woe, With its wild, exulting thrills, With the rush of mighty wills, And the strength to do and dare— Born of passion and of prayer!
II.
Let the present fade away, And the splendors of to-day; For our hearts within us burn As our glances backward turn. What rare memories awaken As the tree of life is shaken, And its storied branches blow In the winds of long ago! Do ye not remember, brothers, Ere the war-days how ’twas said Grand, heroic days were over And proud chivalry was dead? Still we saw the glittering lances Gleaming through the old romances, Still beheld the watch-fires burning On the cloudy heights of Time; And from fields that they had won, When the stormy fight was done, Saw victorious knights returning Flushed with triumph’s joy sublime! For the light of song and story Kindled with supernal glory Plains where ancient heroes fought; And illumined, with a splendor Rare and magical and tender, All the mighty deeds they wrought. But we thought the sword of battle, Long unused, had lost its glow, And the sullen war-gods slumbered Where their altar-fires burned low!
III.
Was the nation dull and sodden, Buried in material things? ’Twas the chrysalis, awaiting The sure stirring of its wings! For when rang the thrilling war-cry Over all the startled land, And the fiery cross of battle, Flaming, sped from hand to hand, Then how fared it, O my brothers? Were men false or craven then? Did they falter? Did they palter? Did they question why or when? Oh, the story shall be told Until earth itself is old, How, from mountain and from glen, More than thrice ten thousand men Heard the challenge of the foe, Heard the nation’s cry of woe, Heard the summoning to arms, And the battle’s loud alarms! In tumultuous surprise, Lo, their answer rent the skies; And its quick and strong heart-thrills Rocked the everlasting hills! Forth from blossoming fields they sped To the fields with carnage red! Left the plowshare standing still; Left the bench, the forge, the mill; Left the quiet walks of trade And the quarry’s marble shade; Left the pulpit and the court, Careless ease and idle sport; Left the student’s cloistered halls In the old, gray college walls; Left young love-dreams, dear and sweet, War’s stern front, unblenched, to meet! Oh, the strange and sad amaze Of those unforgotten days, When the boys whom we had guided, Nursed and loved, caressed and chided, Suddenly, as in a night, Sprang to manhood’s proudest height; And with calmly smiling lips, As who life’s rarest goblet sips, Dauntless, with unhurried breath, Marched to danger and to death!