Classic Poem

There's a sound on the air of an army in motion,
The thunder of war and the battles' loud boom;
Each breeze that is borne o'er the wide-rolling ocean
Is sad with its terror and dark with its gloom.

But the sun that goes down on the blood-dripping sabre
Shall rise on a scene that is lovelier far,
Where the olive grows green and the Laurels of Labor
Are won in the wild 'neath our own western star.

From the stormy Atlantic their hosts are advancing—
On the far Rocky Mountains their legions are seen—
Down the wilderness valleys their watch-lights are glancing,
And the broad blue Pacific exults in their sheen.

Ever around them rich blessings are springing—
Ever before them the darkness retires;
Peace lends her song to their reveille's ringing,
And Plenty reclines by their bivouac fires.

Where round the dark anvil the red forge is gleaming—
Where the swift shuttle flies, where the plow cleaves the sod—
Round the hearth-stones of Toil rise the ramparts of Freemen,
The Altars of Home and the Temples of God.

And still may they rise, till their victories speeding
Shall circle the earth with their mission sublime,
Till the world that was fair in the morning of Eden
Shall blossom again in the sunset of Time.

And honor to him who shall honor his station
In the land where his labor its earnest may find:
Where the works of his hands are the pride of a nation,
And the worth of his heart is the hope of mankind.