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THE CRISIS.
THE CRISIS.
[SEPTEMBER, 1872.]
The cannons' thunders jar the air, While mingled with the battle crySwells the blown bugle's ringing blare;But over all I hear the prayer Breathed by our sires in days gone by.
'Twas theirs to win; 'tis ours to guard; They faltered not when faint and few;And shall we deem the service hardWho bear the banner many-starred, O'er which their victor eagle flew?
O not in vain their memories plead That we should walk the narrow way,Content to scorn each selfish creed,And in our fathers' valor read The noble lesson of To-Day.
I look at the sky above me, At the solemn noon of night,And think of the hearts that love me,— And the stars seem doubly bright.
But of all the worlds that glisten In the midnight's dusky blue,I see only one that is changeless,— And then I think but of you!
