Full red the furnace fires must glow That melt the ore of mortal kind; The mills of God are grinding slow, But ah, how close they grind!
To-day the Dahlgren and the drum Are dread Apostles of His Name; His kingdom here can only come By chrism of blood and flame.
Be strong: already slants the gold Athwart these wild and stormy skies; From out this blackened waste, behold What happy homes shall rise!
But see thou well no traitor gloze, No striking hands with Death and Shame, Betray the sacred blood that flows So freely for thy name.
And never fear a victor foe— Thy children’s hearts are strong and high; Nor mourn too fondly; well they know On deck or field to die.
Nor shalt thou want one willing breath, Though, ever smiling round the brave, The blue sea bear us on to death, The green were one wide grave.
