His serried ranks shall reel before
The arm that lays the panther low.

And ye who breast the mountain storm
By grassy steep or highland lake,
Come, for the land ye love, to form
A bulwark that no foe can break.
Stand, like

your own gray cliffs that mock
The whirlwind; stand in her defence:
The blast as soon shall move the rock
As rushing squadrons bear ye thence.

And

ye,

whose homes are by her grand Swift rivers, rising far away,

Come from the depth of her green land
As mighty in your march as they;
As terrible as when the rains

Have swelled them over bank and bourn,
With sudden floods to drown the plains
And sweep along the woods uptorn.

And ye who throng, beside the deep,
Her ports and hamlets of the strand,
In number like the waves that leap

On his long murmuring marge of sand,
Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim,
He rises, all his floods to pour,
And flings the proudest barks that swim,
A helpless wreck against the shore.

Few, few were they whose swords, of old,
Won the fair land in which we dwell;

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.

W. C. Bryant.

CCCXXIII.

NOT YET.

COUNTRY, marvel of the earth! O realm to sudden greatness grown! The age that gloried in thy birth, Shall it behold thee overthrown? Shall traitors lay that greatness low? No, Land of Hope and Blessing, No!

And we who wear thy glorious name,
Shall we, like cravens, stand apart,
When those whom thou hast trusted, aim
The death-blow at thy generous heart?

Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo!
Hosts rise in harness, shouting, No!

And they who founded, in our land,
The power that rules from sea to sea,
Bled they in vain, or vainly planned
To leave their country great and free?
Their sleeping ashes, from below,
Send up the thrilling murmur, No!

Knit they the gentle ties which long
These sister States were proud to wear,
And forged the kindly links so strong
For idle hands in sport to tear -
For scornful hands aside to throw ?
No, by our fathers' memories, No!

Our humming marts, our iron ways,

Our wind-tossed woods on mountain crest,

The hoarse Atlantic, with his bays,

The calm, broad Ocean of the West,

And Mississippi's torrent flow,

And loud Niagara, answer, No!

Not yet the hour is nigh, when they
Who deep in Eld's dim twilight sit,
Earth's ancient kings, shall rise and say,
"Proud country, welcome to the pit!
So soon art thou, like us, brought low?"
No, sullen group of shadows, No!

That mighty arm which none can stay — On clouds above and fields below,

Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No!

CCCXXIV.

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

AT last, at last, each glowing star

In that pure field of heavenly blue,

On every people shining far,

Burns, to its utmost promise true.

Hopes in our fathers' hearts that stirred,
Justice, the seal of peace, long scorned,
O perfect peace! too long deferred,

At last, at last, your day has dawned.

Your day has dawned, but many an hour

Of storm and cloud, of doubt and tears, Across the eternal sky must lower,

Before the glorious noon appears.

And not for us that noontide glow :

For us the strife and toil shall be ; But welcome toil, for now we know

Our children shall that glory see.

W. C. Bryant.

At last, at last, O Stars and Stripes!
Touched in your birth by Freedom's flame,
Your purifying lightning wipes

Out from our history its shame.

Stand to your faith, America!

Sad Europe listen to our call!
Up to your manhood, Africa!

That gracious flag floats over all.

And when the hour seems dark with doom,
Our sacred banner, lifted higher,
Shall flash away the gathering gloom
With inextinguishable fire.

Pure as its white the future see!
Bright as its red is now the sky!
Fixed as its stars the faith shall be,
That nerves our hands to do or die.

G. W. Curtis.

CCCXXV.

AM I FOR PEACE? YES.

FOR the peace which rings out from the cannons' throat,

And the suasion of shot and shell,

Till Rebellion's spirit is trampled down

To the depths of its kindred hell.

For the peace which shall follow the squadron's tramp,
Where the brazen trumpets bray,

And, drunk with the fury of storm and strife,

The blood-red chargers neigh.

For the peace which shall wash out the leprous stain
Of our slavery foul and grim,

And shall sunder the fetters which creak and clank

On the down-trodden dark man's limb.

I will curse him as traitor, and false of heart,
Who would shrink from the conflict now,
And will stamp it, with blistering, burning brand,
On his hideous, Cain-like brow.

Out! out of the way! with your spurious peace,
Which would make us Rebellion's slaves;
We will rescue our land from the traitorous grasp,
Or cover it with our graves.

Out! out of the way! with your knavish schemes!
You trembling and trading pack!

Crouch away in the dark, like a sneaking hound
That its master has beaten back.

You would barter the fruit of our fathers' blood,
And sell out the Stripes and Stars,

To purchase a place with Rebellion's votes,
Or escape from Rebellion's scars.

By the widow's wail, by the mother's tears,
By the orphans who cry for bread,
By our sons who fell, we will never yield
Till Rebellion's soul is dead.

CCCXXVI.

THE GREAT BELL ROLAND.

TOLL! Roland, toll!

In old St. Bavon's tower,

At midnight hour,

The great bell Roland spoke!

All souls that slept in Ghent awoke !

What meant the thunder stroke?

Why trembled wife and maid?

Why caught each man his blade?
Why echoed every street

Anonymous.