Classic Poem

Fast o'er the desert rode Fremont,
O'er the broad and burning plain —
By the Bitter Lake, and the frozen font
In the wild Nevada's chain.
The wolf howled long round his lonely camp,
The mist of morning was cold and damp,
And the dark Platte foamed o'er his charger's neck
Ere he stood on the grand Sierra's Peak.

There's a blacker tide to stem, my boys!
There's a rougher hill to climb!
We shall camp 'mid faction's snarling noise,
And the howl of startled crime.
There's work to do ere we gain the goal —
There are logs and lumps from our track to roll —
There are mules to spur — there are wolves to scare
From the prey they gorge in their bloody lair.

Do we wait to drink of a bitterer cup?
Or clamor for darker proof?
The corse lies stark, and the smoke goes up
From the settler's burning roof —
Our brothers faint on the far-off plains,
Their blood lies fresh 'neath the Autumn rains.
Are we yet to pause? do we linger till
The slave-roll is called on Bunker Hill?

Too long have we stood in idle doubt —
Too blind and deaf we have been
To the foul assault that foamed without,
And the fouler treason within.
But the clock is striking the final hour
Of fools in office and knaves in power.
From their place of crime they shall slink away,
Like guilty ghosts at the dawn of day.

The Dagon that lords it o'er our land,
Have at him, one and all!
Let us league like brothers, heart and hand,
Till the monstrous idol fall.
Tumble him down to rot away,
With his front of brass and his feet of clay.
Stand, and our children yet shall see
Not an inch of soil but is fair and free.

Let us prove the right that men may do,
Let us march to the Union's tread —
We are led by one that is tried and true,
And we're watched by One o'erhead.
The camp-fire shining to cheer our toil
Shall never be kindled on servile soil.
The land that was bought with our father's graves
Shall never be trod or tilled by slaves!