Classic Poem

Rumbling , and rolling, and rocking, the battle swept up from the valley,
Laid its red hand on the harvest, its torch at the heart of the hearthstone;
Laid its hot breath on the village, that shivered and shrank at its coming;
Snapped like a forest of firs beneath the sharp strokes of the tempest.

Up from the hush of the hamlet came the low cries of the women,
Down from the whirl of the city, the wail of the fatherless children,
Mingling and making their moan in the lap of a desolate sorrow,—
The dirge and the funeral moan of a widowed and comfortless sorrow.

Day is as night, and the night is a sweeping and swift desolation,
The hurricane chained to its breast, and the curse of the scourge in its footsteps;
Heaping its dead in the trenches, with glitter of steel, and the bayonet
Red like the Golgotha spear dipped in the blood of the innocent

Ever the long-roll is heard, the marching of men to the slaughter,
The scream of the bugles like eagles that flap their broad wings to the thunder;
Mingling their din with the shriek of the shell and the crash of the cannon,
And the shock of the lines as they kneel in solid platoons to the volley.

“ Stand to your guns! ” And there came the rush and the crush of the whirlwind;
Headless and trunkless they fell, the royal old oaks of the forest,—
The men with the sinews of strength and the pride of the oak-knotted forest,
Lay with their lips to the dust, and as dust the rent reins of their valor.

Lay with their lips to the sod and their hearts to the ribbed rocks as pulseless,
And the sobs of the ridges gave back the cries of their soul in the conflict;
The cry of the mighty struck dumb with their eyes on the goal of the victor,
The waving of palms and the plumes, and the welcome acclaim to the victor.

Brothers they knelt in the ranks, with faces hard-set for the battle,
And eyes that were eyes that beheld the march of the gods in the war-dust,
The shimmer of shields and the plumes and the stride of the gods in the war-dust;
And the yawning wide earth at their feet with the rumble of hell in its bosom.

Shoulder to shoulder they knelt in the glow and the glare of the carnage,—
The red reeling whirl and the dance of the harpies that gloat on the carnage;
Stifled their souls in the heat and the thick blinding smoke of the carnage,
The black-draught absinthe of hate drunk deep in the wrath of the carnage.

Sighted their guns in the flash of the bursting of shell and the glamour
Of mad conflagration pent up in the mountain-locked depths of the forest;
Sighted their guns as they lay with their hearts to the hearts of their comrades,
The long abatis of the dead thrown up at the feet of the living.

God! how that terrible struggle is branded and burnt in my being,
Seared to my soul in the furnace of fiery and fierce tribulation!
Waking or sleeping, they rise and look in my eyes and confront me,
Look in my eyes with the eyes of the slain in the smoke of the battle.

Twain in the ranks they were mine, my foster sons born for the battle,
Stalwart of limb and of courage drawn from a long generation;
A royal long lineage of men that fought on the moor and the mountain,
And planted the ensigns of Freedom high on the bulwarks of nations.

“Captain,” he said, as he came, with one on each arm to the muster,
“Captain, we've talked it all over—I, and the boys, and their mother;
And little we deem it of worth that we shrink when the need is supremest;
Take them, and God help you, Captain, to make them half worthy their country.”

Side by side in the ranks, in the camp, in the march, in the battle,
Side by side, my brave boys,—never a sigh nor a murmur;
Deeming it honor to share the siege and the thirst and the hunger,
Deeming it honor, while forward beckoned the flag of the Union.

Death to the right and the left, ghostly and ghastly and gory,
Death in the sod at their feet, making its bitter complaining,
Death in the voice of the tempest, death in the gasp of a prayer,
Death—it is death but to speak, in the flight of a thought it is hidden.

Keen as the lightning's breath the bullet has sped on its mission;
Forward the ranks are swept down, forward they spring to the breaches;
And ever the crash and the crush of the tempest of fire, and the horror,
And ever the stretcher gives back the dust to the earth that has given.

Side by side, my brave boys, my foster sons bred for the battle,
Side by side in the smoke and the fire and the fierce tribulation;
Side by side with the seal of the angel of peace on their bosom,
Under the rudely-turned sod waiting the dawn of fruition.

Waiting the dawn of a day sweet as the birth of a summer,
When like a bow in the clouds Union should span the Republic;
Flinging its halo of suns over the frosts of the Northland,
Flinging its halo of stars over the dews of the Southland.

Show me the men in the ranks, I will show you the might of the Nation!
Crown them with laurels and love the battle-scarred sons of our peril!
Sacred the hills where they lie, the plains that received their baptismal,
Bright as the pathway of souls threading the archway of heaven.

Would they might rise from the ranks, cordon the hills, and confront us,
Lay their dead hands in our hands, awed in the silver-tongued silence,
Under the pinions of peace, under the whispers of promise,
Calmly with eye unto eye sharing the sweet benediction.

What would they say, could they rise, look in our eyes and salute us?—
“Men of the North and the South, nurtured in Liberty's cradle,
Call it not vain that we fell bearing the ensigns of Union
High on the summits of fame, far on the outposts of Freedom.

“Men of the North and the South, mighty in pride and in valor,
Fair are the banners of Peace, brave is the service she offers;
Broad are her fleets, and her sails lead to wide havens of conquest,
Proud are the forts that she storms, guarding the mints of the mountains.

“Men of the North and the South, bitter the fountains of faction,
Eschol has grapes that are sweet, valleys of milk and of honey;
Turn from your idols, and forth, mount to the hills and possess them,
Fashion your temples of Peace, tribe unto tribe adding tribute.

“Liberty calls from her heights: ‘Give me brave men for my service,
Men who can wrestle with wrong, armed with the armor of honor;
Men who can stand with bared brows under the splendors of heaven,
When the swift lightnings of wrath flash where the storm-cloud is riven.’”

Lead us, O Liberty, lead, under the zenith of Hope,
Under the banners of Peace, tossing their fluttering folds;
Under the shade and the sun,
Blending their colors in one;
Red, White, and Blue,
Blue, White, and Red,
Under the banners that float over our garlanded dead.

Lead us, O Liberty, lead, forth to a holier day,
Glad with the cymbals of joy, great with the glory to be;
Forth in the pride of our might,
Forth in the might of the right;
Red, White, and Blue,
Blue, White, and Red,
Under whose folds we have fought, under whose stars we have bled.

Lead us, O Liberty, lead! Happy who follow anear,
Not as the conscripted go, not as the slave to his chain,—
Strong in the sonship of love,
Strong in the grace from above;
Red, White, and Blue,
Blue, White, and Red,
Emblem of happier hope, brothers to brotherhood wed

Lead us, O Liberty, lead, ready and steady we come,
Elbow to elbow we march, timing our steps to the call;
Up from the ban and the blight,
Up to the summits of light;
Red, White, and Blue,
Blue, White, and Red,
Conflict and carnage behind, glory and grandeur ahead.

Lead us, O Liberty, lead, every star in its place,
Every fold of the dear old flag burning and blazoned with love;
Below is the chastening rod,
Above is the glory of God;
Blue, White, and Red,
Red, White, and Blue,
Flag of our fathers, thrice hail! Hail to the Red, White, and Blue!