Classic Poem

The spring-time came, but not with mirth;
The banner of our trust—
And with it the best hope of earth—
Was trailing in the dust.

The farmer saw the shame from far,
And stopped his plough afield:
“Not the blade of peace, but the brand of war
This arm of mine must wield.

“When traitor hands that flag would stain,
Their homes let women keep;
Until its stars burn bright again
Let others sow and reap!”

The farmer sighed: “A lifetime long
The plough has been my trust,
And sure it were an arrant wrong
To leave it now to rust!”

With ready strength the farmer tore
The iron from the wood,
And to the village smith he bore
That ploughshare stout and good.

The blacksmith's arms were bare and brown,
His bellows wheezed and roared.
The farmer flung the ploughshare down:
“Now forge me out a sword!”

The blacksmith wrought with skill that day,
The blade was keen and bright,—
And still where thickest is the fray
The farmer leads the fight.

Not as of old that blade he sways
To break the meadow's sleep,
But through the rebel ranks he lays
A furrow broad and deep.

And though his fields stand sere and brown,
The farmer keeps his vow;
Right well he knows what blessings crown
The furrow of the plough.

“But better is to-day's success,”—
So ran the farmer's word,—
“For nations yet unborn shall bless
This furrow of the sword!”