The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 4.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

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[202] Swift as their summons came they left
     The plough mid-furrow standing still,
The half-ground corn grist in the mill,
     The spade in earth, the axe in cleft.

They went where duty seemed to call,
     They scarcely asked the reason why;
They only knew they could but die,
     And death was not the worst of all!

Of man for man the sacrifice,
     All that was theirs to give, they gave.
The flowers that blossomed from their grave
     Have sown themselves beneath all skies.

Their death-shot shook the feudal tower,
     And shattered slavery's chain as well;
On the sky's dome, as on a bell,
     Its echo struck the world's great hour.

That fateful echo is not dumb:
     The nations listening to its sound
Wait, from a century's vantage-ground,
     The holier triumphs yet to come,—

The bridal time of Law and Love,
     The gladness of the world's release,
When, war-sick, at the feet of Peace
     The hawk shall nestle with the dove!—

The golden age of brotherhood
     Unknown to other rivalries
Than of the mild humanities,
     And gracious interchange of good,