Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed In eloquence of attitude, Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher; Then swept his kindling glance of fire From startled pew to breathless choir; When suddenly his mantle wide His hands impatient flung aside, And, lo! he met their wondering eyes Complete in all a warrior's guise.

A moment there was awful pause— When Berkeley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease! God's temple is the house of peace!" The other shouted, "Nay, not so, When God is with our righteous cause; His holiest places then are ours, His temples are our forts and towers. That frown upon the tyrant foe; In this, the dawn of Freedom's day, There is a time to fight and pray!"

And now before the open door— The warrior priest had ordered so— The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er, Its long reverberating blow, So loud and clear, it seemed the ear Of dusty death must wake and hear. And there the startling drum and fife Fired the living with fiercer life; While overhead, with wild increase, Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, The great bell swung as ne'er before; It seemed as it would never cease; And every word its ardor flung From off its jubilant iron tongue Was, "War! War! War!"

"Who dares?"—this was the patriot's cry, As striding from the desk he came— "Come out with me, in Freedom's name, For her to live, for her to die?" A hundred hands flung up reply, A hundred voices answered, "I!"

Thomas Buchanan Read



AMERICA[4]

Foreseen in the vision of sages, Foretold when martyrs bled, She was born of the longing of ages, By the truth of the noble dead And the faith of the living fed! No blood in her lightest veins Frets at remembered chains, Nor shame of bondage has bowed her head. In her form and features still The unblenching Puritan will, Cavalier honor, Huguenot grace, The Quaker truth and sweetness, And the strength of the danger-girdled race Of Holland, blend in a proud completeness.

From the homes of all, where her being began, She took what she gave to Man; Justice, that knew no station, Belief, as soul decreed, Free air for aspiration, Free force for independent deed! She takes, but to give again, As the sea returns the rivers in rain; And gathers the chosen of her seed From the hunted of every crown and creed.

Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine; Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine; Her France pursues some dream divine; Her Norway keeps his mountain pine; Her Italy waits by the western brine; And, broad-based under all, Is planted England's oaken-hearted mood, As rich in fortitude As e'er went worldward from the island-wall! Fused in her candid light, To one strong race all races here unite; Tongues melt in hers, hereditary foemen Forget their sword and slogan, kith and clan. 'Twas glory, once to be a Roman: She makes it glory, now, to be a man!

Bayard Taylor



THE BLUE AND THE GRAY

By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the one, the Blue, Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the laurel, the Blue, Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers Alike for the friend and the foe: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the roses, the Blue, Under the lilies, the Gray.

So with an equal splendor The morning sun rays fall, With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Broidered with gold, the Blue, Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Wet with the rain, the Blue, Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done, In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the blossoms, the Blue, Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead! Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray.

Francis Miles Finch



ABRAHAM LINCOLN[5]

Life may be given in many ways, And loyalty to Truth be sealed As bravely in the closet as the field, So bountiful is Fate; But then to stand beside her, When craven churls deride her, To front a lie in arms and not to yield, This shows, methinks, God's plan And measure of a stalwart man, Limbed like the old heroic breeds, Who stand self-poised on manhood's solid earth, Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, Fed from within with all the strength he needs. Such was he, our martyr chief, Whom late the Nation he had led, With ashes on her head, Wept with the passion of an angry grief: Forgive me, if from present things I turn To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote: For him her Old-World molds aside she threw, And, choosing sweet clay from the breast Of the unexhausted West, With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. How beautiful to see Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead; One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, Not lured by any cheat of birth, But by his clear-grained human worth, And brave old wisdom of sincerity! They knew that outward grace is dust; They could not choose but trust In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, And supple-tempered will That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. His was no lonely mountain peak of mind, Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, A sea mark now, now lost in vapor's blind; Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, Yet also nigh to Heaven and loved of loftiest stars. Nothing of Europe here, Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, Ere any names of serf and peer Could Nature's equal scheme deface And thwart her genial will; Here was a type of the true elder race, And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face. I praise him not; it were too late; And some innative weakness there must be In him who condescends to victory Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, Safe in himself as in a fate. So always firmly he: He knew to bide his time, And can his fame abide, Still patient in his simple faith sublime, Till the wise years decide. Great captains, with their guns and drums, Disturb our judgment for the hour, But at last silence comes! These all are gone, and standing like a tower, Our children shall behold his fame, The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, New birth of our new soil, the first American.

James Russell Lowell



THE FLAG GOES BY

Hats off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, A flash of color beneath the sky: Hats off! The flag is passing by!

Blue and crimson and white it shines, Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines, Hats off! The colors before us fly; But more than the flag is passing by.

Sea fights and land fights, grim and great, Fought to make and save the State: Weary marches and sinking ships; Cheers of victory on dying lips;

Days of plenty and years of peace; March of a strong land's swift increase; Equal justice, right, and law, Stately honor and reverend awe;

Sign of a nation, great and strong To ward her people from foreign wrong: Pride and glory and honor—all Live in the colors to stand or fall. Hats off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums; And loyal hearts are beating high: Hats off! The flag is passing by!

Henry Holcomb Bennett



THE SHIP OF STATE

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O UNION, strong and great! Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate! We know what Master laid thy keel, What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge and what a heat Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 'Tis of the wave and not the rock; 'Tis but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale! In spite of rock and tempest's roar In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee—are all with thee!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow



THE NAME OF OLD GLORY[6]

Old Glory! say who, By the ships and the crew, And the long, blended ranks of the grey and the blue— Who gave you, Old Glory, the name that you bear With such pride everywhere As you cast yourself free to the rapturous air And leap out full length as we're wanting you to? Who gave you that name, with the ring of the same, And the honor and fame so becoming to you?— Your stripes streaked in ripples of white and of red, With your stars at their glittering best overhead— By day or by night, Their delightfulest light Laughing down from their little square heaven of blue! Who gave you the name of Old Glory?—say who— Who gave you the name of Old Glory?

The old banner lifted, and faltering then, In vague lisps and whispers fell silent again.

Old Glory,—speak out!—we are asking about How you happened to "favor" a name, so to say, That sounds so familiar and careless and gay As we cheer it and shout in our wild, breezy way— We—the crowd, every man of us, calling you that— We—Tom, Dick and Harry—each swinging his hat— And hurrahing "Old Glory," like you were our kind, When—Lord—we all know we're as common as sin!

And yet it just seems like you humor us all And waft us your thanks as we hail you and fall Into line, with you over us, waving us on Where our glorified, sanctified betters have gone— And this is the reason we're wanting to know— (And we're wanting it so! Where our own fathers went, we are willing to go) Who gave you the name of Old Glory—Oho! Who gave you the name of Old Glory?

The old flag unfurled in a billowy thrill For an instant, then wistfully sighed and was still.

Old Glory—the story we're wanting to hear Is what the plain facts of your christening were— For your name—just to hear it, Repeat it, and cheer it, 's a tang to the spirit As salt as a tear;— And seeing you fly, and the boys marching by, There's a shout in the throat and a blur in the eye And an aching to live for you always—or die, If, dying, we still keep you waving on high. And so, by our love For you, floating above, And the scars of all wars and the sorrows thereof, Who gave you the name of Old Glory, and why Are we thrilled at the name of Old Glory? Then the old banner leaped, like a sail in the blast, And fluttered an audible answer at last.

And it spake, with a shake of the voice, and it said:— By the driven snow-white and the living blood-red Of my bars, and their heaven of stars overhead— By the symbol conjoined of them all, skyward cast, As I float from the steeple, or flap at the mast, Or droop o'er the sod where the long grasses nod,— My name is as old as the glory of God, ... So I came by the name of Old Glory.

James Whitcomb Riley

Footnotes:

[1] By Ralph Waldo Emerson, at the dedication, April 19, 1836, of the monument erected at Concord in honor of the patriots who fell in the battle of Lexington sixty-one years before.

[2] Published in the Pennsylvania Magazine, 1775.

[3] Used with the courteous permission of the publishers, The J. B. Lippincott Co., Philadelphia.

[4] From the National Ode, July 4, 1876.

[5] From the Ode recited at the Harvard Commemoration, July 21, 1865.

[6] From the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley. Copyright 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.

THE END