BOOK SECOND.

RECENT SELECTIONS.

POETRY.

L

CCLXXXVIII.

OUR COUNTRY'S CALL.

AY down the axe, fling by the spade:
Leave in its track the toiling plough;
The rifle and the bayonet-blade

For arms like yours were fitter now;
And let the hands that ply the pen
Quit the light task, and learn to wield
The horseman's crooked brand, and rein
The charger on the battle-field.

Our country calls; away! away!

To where the blood-stream blots the green,

Strike to defend the gentlest sway

That Time in all his course has seen.

See, from a thousand coverts

see

Spring the armed foes that haunt her track;

They rush to smite her down, and we
Must beat the banded traitors back.

Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave,

And moved as soon to fear and flight,

Men of the glade and forest! leave
Your woodcraft for the field of fight.
The arms that wield the axe must pour
An iron tempest on the foe;

His serried ranks shall reel before
The arm that lays the panther low.

And

ye

who breast the mountain storm By grassy steep or highland lake, Come, for the land ye love, to form

A bulwark that no foe can break.
Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock
The whirlwind; stand in her defence:
The blast as soon shall move the rock
As rushing squadrons bear ye thence.

And ye, whose homes are by her grand
Swift rivers, rising far away,
Come from the depth of her green land
As mighty in your march as they;
As terrible as when the rains

Have swelled them over bank and bourn,
With sudden floods to drown the plains
And sweep along the woods uptorn.

And ye who throng, beside the deep,
Her ports and hamlets of the strand,
In number like the waves that leap

On his long murmuring marge of sand,
Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim,
He rises, all his floods to pour,
And flings the proudest barks that swim,
A helpless wreck against the shore.

Few, few were they whose swords, of old,
Won the fair land in which we dwell;

But we are many, we who hold

The grim resolve to guard it well.
Strike for that broad and goodly land,
Blow after blow, till men shall see

That Might and Right move hand in hand,
And glorious must their triumph be.

W. C. Bryant.

CCLXXXIX.

NOT YET.

COUNTRY, marvel of the earth! O realm to sudden greatness grown! The age that gloried in thy birth,

Shall it behold thee overthrown? Shall traitors lay that greatness low? No, Land of Hope and Blessing, No!

And we who wear. thy glorious name,
Shall we, like cravens, stand apart,
When those whom thou hast trusted, aim
The death-blow at thy generous heart?

Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo!
Hosts rise in harness, shouting, No!

And they who founded, in our land,
The power that rules from sea to sea,
Bled they in vain, or vainly planned
To leave their country great and free?
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' memories, No!

Our humming marts, our iron ways,

Our wind-tossed woods on mountain crest,

The hoarse Atlantic, with his bays,

The calm, broad Ocean of the West,

And Mississippi's torrent flow,

And loud Niagara, answer, No!

At last, at last, O Stars and Stripes!
Touched in your birth by Freedom's flame,
Your purifying lightning wipes

Out from our history its shame.

Stand to your faith, America!

Sad Europe listen to our call! Up to your manhood, Africa!

That gracious flag floats over all.

And when the hour seems dark with doom,
Our sacred banner, lifted higher,
Shall flash away the gathering gloom
With inextinguishable fire.

Pure as its white the future see!
Bright as its red is now the sky!
Fixed as its stars the faith shall be,
That nerves our hands to do or die.

G. W. Curtis.

CCXCI.

LEXINGTON — 1775.

No maddening thirst for blood had they,

No battle-joy was theirs who set

Against the alien bayonet

Their homespun breasts in that old day.

Swift as the summons came they left
The plow mid-furrow standing still.
The half-ground corngrist in the mill,
The spade in earth, the ax 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!