Can moulder under ground,
With the march of a million men o'erhead,
Their banners eagle-crowned?
From Plymouth Rock to the Golden Gate,
A shout goes right and left;
The aliens' dreamful watch is done--
The sepulchre is cleft.
Weak hands! Heap clay on the Stars of God!
They never shone before!
They rend the shroud, and they pierce the cloud;
All hail, then, Thirty-Four!