Poems (Henderson)/The Cry of the Women

by Elizabeth Henderson

THE CRY OF THE WOMEN.

From the misty shores of the ocean,
 Where the great salt waves dash in;
From the crowded work-rooms tumult,
 Far above its deafening din:
From quiet homes in the valley,
 From the city's crowded street,
Comes the cry of a thousand soldiers,
 Comes the tramp of a thousand feet.

Muster us in, cry the soldiers,
 Give us a leader true,
Who ever with strong endeavor,
 Shall be brave to dare and do.
Give us the weapons of honor,
 Give us the banner of love,
Let our emblem of battle be,
 The eagle subdued by the dove.

We are old veterans all,
 Many the battle we've fought,
In the silence of dreary homes,
 In the great dim Palace of Thought.
Marshal us into the field,
 Not with sound of trumpet or drum,
Nor with flash of shining sabre,
 Nor roar of booming gun.

Not with plume or epaulet shining;,
 Let our leader brave be drest,
But in meek and modest apparel,
 That all good women love best.
Though we come with victory ringing,
 Her war-cry in our breasts.
We have fought like heroes ever,
 We have vanquished greater foes,
Than the epauletted warrior,
 On a gory battle field knows.

We would not be crowned or sceptred
 With gems or glittering gold,
But in place of deathless honor,
 Let our names be forever enrolled.