Before thee, in the nation's view,
And if thy prophet prove untrue,
And from our country's grasp be thrown
The sceptre and the starry crown,
And thou, and all thy marshalled host
Be baffled, and in ruin lost;
Oh! let me not outlive the blow
That seals my country's overthrow!
And, lest this woeful end come true,
Men of the North, I turn to you.
Display your vaunted flag once more,
Southward your eager columns pour !
Sound trump, and fife, and rallying drum;
From every hill and valley come.
Old men, yield up your treasured gold!
Can liberty be priced and sold?
Fair matrons, maids, and tender brides,
Gird weapons to your lovers' sides;
And, though your hearts break at the deed,
Give them your blessing and God speed;
Then point them to the field of flame,
With words like those of Sparta's dame;
And when the ranks are full and strong,
And the whole army moves along,
A vast result of care and skill,
Obedient to the master will;
And your young hero draws the sword,
And gives the last commanding word
That hurls your strength upon the foe—
Oh! let them need no second blow.
Strike, as your fathers struck of old,
Through summer's heat and winter's cold,
Through pain, disaster, and defeat;
Through marches tracked with bloody feet;
Through every ill that could befall
The holy cause that bound them all!
Strike as they struck for liberty!
Strike as they struck to make you free!
Strike for the crown of victory!
Of genius and renown,
A war-trained correspondent he
From famous London town.
On Indian and Crimean coasts
He wrote of guns and drums,
And now as through our land he posts, To Washington he comes.
Will Russell said to chosen friend:
66 Though four months I have been
In search of some great Yankee fight,
No skrimmage have I seen.
"To-morrow's sun will see a fight
On Bull Run's banks, they say;
So there, my friend, we'll early go,
All in a two-'oss shay.
"I'll also take a saddle-horse
To bear the battle's brunt,
Whereon, in my Crimean style,
I'll see the fight in front.
"And I will don the coolest of
My Himalayan suits-
My belt, felt hat, revolver, and
My old East-Indian boots.
"Fresh stores of pens I'll surely need, And foolscap, too, I think;
And in one holster snugly thrust
A pint of Dovell's ink.
"While in the bottom of the gig
We'll stow the choice Bordeaux,
And eke this bottle of cold tea,
To cool us off, you know!
"And for that, in this heathen land, The grub is all a sham,
I've here wrapped up some sausage, too,
And sandwiches of 'am.
Experience on Crimean shores
Has taught me how to forage,
And how these creature-comforts tend
To keep up martial courage.”
Smack went his lips at thought thereof
Off rolled the Yankee gig,
Before the shouts and rolling whites
Of starers, small and big!
Like clouds of dust his spirits rise,
While merry cracks the whip;
The led-horse pranced and "bobbed around" Like porpoise round a ship.
The Long Bridge planks jumped up and down
In sympathetic jig;
They little thought he would return
Minus the "creaking gig."
That rotten Rubicon is passed,
And likewise frowning "Runyon," Its outlines marked with many a black Columbiad on its trunnion.
Past fields where just the day before
The harvest-scythe was sweeping,
They rushed where soon its human sheaves
Death's sickle would be reaping!
As rise the distant cannon's tones,
So mounts his martial ardor,
His thoughts half on the work "in front,"
Half on his meagre larder
At length he's there at Centreville!
In sight and sound of what
He came so far to see and sketch,
Where rained the shell and shot!
But ere he ventures, careful soul,
To reach that scene of death,
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