[2]
Their sleeping ashes, from below,
Send up the thrilling murmur, No!
Knit they the gentle ties which long
These sister States were proud to wear,
And forged the kindly links so strong,
For idle hands in sport to tear--
For scornful hands aside to throw?
No!
by our fathers' memory, No!
Our humming marts, our iron ways,
Our wind-tossed woods on mountain crest,
The hoarse Atlantic, with his bays,
The call, broad Ocean of the West,
And Mississippi's torrent-flow,
And loud Niagara, answer, No!
Not yet the hour is nigh, when they
Who deep in Eld's dim twilight sit,
Earth's ancient kings, shall rise and say,
“Proud country, welcome to the pit!
So soon art thou, like us, brought low?”
No!
sullen group of shadows, No!
For now, behold, the arm that gave
The victory in our fathers' day,
Strong, as of old, to guard and save--
That mighty arm which none can stay--
On clouds above, and fields below,
Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No!
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Van Nostrand. New York, New York. 1862.
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