Beat! beat! drums!-blow! bugles! blow! prayer, Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties, Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses, So strong you thump, O terrible drums-so loud you bugles blow. WALT WHITMAN. OUR COUNTRY'S CALL. LAY down the axe, fling by the spade; For arms like yours were fitter now; Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein The charger on the battle-field. Our country calls; away! away! To where the blood-stream blots the green; Strike to defend the gentlest sway That Time in all his course has seen. See, from a thousand coverts-see Spring the armed foes that haunt her track; They rush to smite her down, and we Must beat the banded traitors back. Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave, And moved as soon to fear and flight, Men of the glade and forest! leave Your woodcraft for the field of fight, The arms that wield the axe must pour A bulwark that no foe can break. And ye whose homes are by her grand Swift rivers, rising far away, Come from the depth of her green land As terrible as when the rains Have swelled them over bank and bourne, With sudden floods to drown the plains And sweep along the woods uptorn. And ye who throng beside the deep, On his long-murmuring marge of sand, Few, few were they whose swords of old But we are many, we who hold The grim resolve to guard it well. Strike for that broad and goodly land, Blow after blow, till men shall see That Might and Right move hand in hand, And glorious must their triumph be. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. A CRY TO ARMS. Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side! Let desk and case and counter rot, The despot roves your fairest lands; Your fields must grow but armed bands, Give up to mildew and to rust And feed your country's sacred dust Come with the weapons at your call- He wields the deadliest blade of all The arm that drives its unbought blows Might brain a tyrant with a rose. Does any falter? let him turn To some brave maiden's eyes, And catch the holy fires that burn Oh, could you like your women feel, A day might see your lines of steel What hope, O God! would not grow warm When thoughts like these give cheer? The lily calmly braves the storm, Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side! We battle for our country's right HENRY TIMROD. NO MORE WORDS! [Boston, April, 1861.] No more words; Try it with your swords! Try it with the arms of your bravest and your best! You are proud of your manhood, now put it to the test; Not another word; No more notes; Of the cannon that will roar till the earth and air be shaken; For they speak what they mean, and they cannot be mistaken; No more doubt; Come-fight it out! No child's play! Serve out the deadliest weapons that you know; Waste not one life. You that in the front Bear the battle's brunt When the sun gleams at dawn on the bayonets abreast, Remember 'tis for government and country you contest; For love of all you guard, Stand, and strike hard! You at home that stay From danger far away, Leave not a jot to chance, while you rest in quiet ease; Quick! forge the bolts of death; quick! ship them o'er the seas; You, my lads, abroad, Steady!" be your word; You, at home, be the anchor of your soldiers young and brave; Spare no cost, none is lost, that may strengthen or may save; Sloth were sin and shame; Now play out the game! FRANKLIN LUSHINGTON. |