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32. National fogs.

by E. P. Dyer.
But in the state grim fogs appear,
     That will not soon away,
When anarchy and panic fear
     And treason rule the day.

Time was but eight short weeks ago,
     Before the leaves were out,
That all were trembling for the blow
     Before a rebel rout.

Dark was the cloud, that, like a shroud,
     Enveloped all the land;
The thunder bellowed deep and loud,
     The storm was close at hand.

Columbia's fears were boundless then,
     Her hopes of good were few;
“Disunion!” was the cry of men,
     Their cry, and ruin, too.

We saw bold anarchy prepared
     To level with the sod
The temple by our fathers reared
     To Liberty and God.

We saw them light the fatal torch,
     And grasp the axe and mace,
And enter at the very porch
     Of Freedom's holy place.

And yet we stood like hirelings near
     To see the temple fall,
Entreating, weeping, pale with fear,
     Lest they should ruin all--

While he who kept the inner gate
     Was neither wise nor true,
But sat and wept, disconsolate--
     'Twas all he dared to do.

And when there came a man of might
     In earnest to defend,
The traitors, eager for the fight,
     Began the bitter end.

They strike the blow; the trumpet sounds
     A warning, loud and long,
In every ear the note resounds,
     And wakes the battle-song.

To arms! to arms! whoever loves
     The land that gave him birth!
To arms! to arms! whoe'er approves!
     What is not freedom worth?

It wakes the city and the farm,
     The hillside and the plain,--
And fills the land with just alarm,
     From Oregon to Maine.

A score of millions hear the cry,
     And herald it abroad;
To arms they fly, to do or die,
     For Liberty and God.

Old Massachusetts caught the word,
     And as a mighty man,
She buckled on the trusty sword,
     And boldly led the van.

Could she forget the hallowed ground
     Where first the Pilgrims trod,--
Who made the woods with songs resound,
     For Freedom and for God?

Had she forgotten Lexington,
     And Concord's bloody field?
And was she now a timid one,
     To crouch, and cower, and yield?

No! Massachusetts rose in might,
     As in the days of yore,
And entered first the bloody fight
     In brutal Baltimore.

How steady was the measured tramp,
     How resolute the eye,
As through the traitors' very camp
     They marched, perhaps to die.

And when they met the frantic mob,
     How unappalled they stood,
While courage quickened every throb
     Of patriotic blood.

[22] They raised the arm, they struck the blow,
     And gloried in the deed,
That first of all they met the foe,
     And made rebellion bleed.

But not without a saddening word
     Is told the glorious tale;
For three of Massachusetts' sons
     Amid the struggle fell.

The message flew as on the wind
     To every freeman's door;
“The blood of Massachusetts stains
     The streets of Baltimore!”

Then came again the cry, “To arms!
     The capital must yield,
Unless ten thousand valiant men
     Shall quickly take the field.”

At once ten times ten thousand rose,
     Who had not armed before;
A million men were ready, then,
     To march through Baltimore.

E'en those who once had striven in vain
     To palliate the wrong,
And sought a poor, precarious peace,
     Took up the battle-song.

One heart, one hand, the North-men stand,
     And swear they will be free;
They battle for their native land,
     For life and liberty.

Look, England, who art wont to sneer!
     And Europe, now behold!
See here the patriotic zeal
     That fired the men of old.

The blood that coursed the father's veins
     Is still as warm and pure;
Now call our Government a dream,
     Our freedom insecure!

That taunted lack of loyalty!
     Look, Europe, what a sight!
When twenty millions rise in strength,
     To vindicate the right.

Was ever such a loyalty
     Bestowed on any throne?
Can such a country ever fall,
     Where such a love is shown?

Ah, no! America shall rise
     Above the dismal cloud;
This is her resurrection morn!
     She casts aside the shroud!

Harp of Columbia! there is still
     A theme to waken thee;
Thou canst again the bosom thrill
     As when, of old, from hill to hill
Thy echoes roused the yeoman's will,
     And taught him to be free!

Hast thou forgot the songs of yore
     Amid the scenes of peace?
And shall thy music nevermore
     Awake the land from shore to shore,
As when, from tyrant's hateful power,
     Our fathers sought release?

Who calls America a land
     Degenerate and base?
'Tis false! 'tis false! that noble band
     Who sought their freedom, sword in hand,
Shall see their sons forever stand
     A free, a loyal race.

How base the heart that could forget
     The blood the fathers spilt!
How heartless he who leaves his debt
     Of gratitude to go unmet,
And he, how tenfold baser yet,
     Who glories in the guilt!

Ah, yes! Columbia is true,
     Her sons are firm and brave;
Let traitors come with fierce ado,
     We'll break their columns through and through,
A traitor's death we'll give them, too,
     And each a traitor's grave.

Then sweep, ye winds, across the plain!
     Ye rivers, to the sea!
Proclaim the word o'er earth and main,
     The blood of yore is young again,
Its loyalty without a stain,--
     Columbia still is free!

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