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232 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Thrice blest the nation that has every son A soldier, ready for the warning sound;
Who marches homeward when the fight is done, To swing the hammer and to till the ground.
Call back that morning, with its lurid light,
When through our land the awful war-bell tolled ;
When lips were mute and women's faces white As the pale cloud that out from Sumter rolled.
Call back that morn : an instant all were dumb, As if the shot had struck the nation's life ;
Then cleared the smoke, and rolled the calling drum, And men streamed in to meet the coming strife.
They closed the ledger and they stilled the loom, The plow left rusting in the prairie farm;
They saw but " Union " in the gathering gloom; The tearless women helped the men to arm;
Brigades from towns—each village sent its band : German and Irish—every race and faith;
There was no question then of native land, But—love the flag and follow it to death.
No need to tell their tale: through every age The splendid story shall be sung and said;
But let me draw one picture from the page — For words of song embalm the hero dead.
The smooth hill is bare, and the cannons are planted, Like Gorgon fates shading its terrible brow;
The word has been passed that the stormers are wanted, And Burnside's battalions are mustering now. |
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