Classic Poem

“T HREE cold, bright moons have marched and wheeled;
And the white cerement that revealed
A Figure stretched upon a Shield,
Is turned to verdure; and the Land is now one mighty Battle-Field.

“And lo, the children which she bred,
And more than all else cherishéd,
To make them true in heart and head,
Stand face to face, as mortal foes, with their swords crossed above the dead.

“Each hath a mighty stroke and stride:
One true—the more that he is tried;
The other dark and evil-eyed;—
And by the hand of one of them, his own dear mother surely died!

“A stealthy step—a gleam of hell,—
It is the simple truth to tell,—
The Son stabbed and the Mother fell:
And so she lies, all mute and pale, and pure and irreproachable!

“And then the battle-trumpet blew;
And the true brother sprang and drew
His blade to smite the traitor through;
And so they clashed above the bier, and the Night sweated bloody dew.

“And all their children, far and wide,
That are so greatly multiplied,
Rise up in frensy and divide;
And choosing, each whom he will serve, unsheathe the sword and take their side.

“And in the low sun's bloodshot rays,
Portentous of the coming days,
The Two great Oceans blush and blaze,
With the emergent continent between them, wrapt in crimson haze.

“Now whichsoever stand or fall,
As God is great and man is small,
The Truth shall triumph over all,—
Forever and forevermore, the Truth shall triumph over all!”