The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 3.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

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[219]
Draw we not even now a freer breath,
As from our shoulders falls a load of death
Loathsome as that the Tuscan's victim bore
When keen with life to a dead horror bound?
Why take we up the accursed thing again?
Pity, forgive, but urge them back no more
Who, drunk with passion, flaunt disunion's rag
With its vile reptile-blazon. Let us press
The golden cluster on our brave old flag
In closer union, and, if numbering less,
Brighter shall shine the stars which still remain.

16th First mo., 1861.

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Ein Feste Burg Ist Unser Gott.

Luther's hymn.

we wait beneath the furnace-blast
     The pangs of transformation;
Not painlessly doth God recast
     And mould anew the nation.
Hot burns the fire
     Where wrongs expire;
Nor spares the hand
     That from the land
Uproots the ancient evil.

The hand-breadth cloud the sages feared
     Its bloody rain is dropping;
The poison plant the fathers spared
     All else is overtopping.
East, West, South, North,
     It curses the earth;