Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/180

By their young footsteps roused, he'll haply raise
His wasted hand, and point each fearful change
Of Bunker's battle-day,—where the assault
Kindled to wildest fury,—where the voice
Of Prescott and of Putnam, nerved their troops
To deeds of untold daring,—where the cry
Burst forth when Warren fell,—where the dire flash
Was hottest, and the life-blood of the brave
Gushed reddest, till the kingly crest was bowed
To infant Liberty. Then may they trace,
Those childish listeners, on that furrowed brow
The holy zeal of men of other days,
Who sought no guerdon save their country's weal;
And should that country need, so may they stand,
When time hath knit their sinews, in the might
Of the same heaven-born trust.
                                                 And if the hands
That never plucked a laurel in the fields
Of iron warfare, nor the fitful weight
Of empire poised, have lent their humble aid
In woman's weakness, to cement thy stones,
Think it no scorn, oh Column! but uprear
Thy glorious head as proudly toward the cloud!
For these, amid their sheltered, lowly sphere,
Making the hearth-stone beautiful with love,
And in the fountain of a nation's hopes
Mingling sweet drops of purity and peace,
Subserve the cause which thou art bound to praise,
To far posterity.