James Russell Lowell (1819–1891)

BEAVER roars hoarse with melting snows,

And rattles diamonds from his granite;

Time was he snatched away my prose,

And into psalms or satires ran it;

But he, and all the rest that once

Started my blood to contra dances

Find me and leave me but a dunce

That has no use for dreams and fancies.

Rat-tat-tat-tattle through the street,

I hear the drummers making riot,

And I sit thinking of the feet

That followed once and now are quiet,—

White feet as snow-drops innocent,

That never knew the paths of Satan,

Sad ears that listened as they went,

Lifelong to hear them come will wait on.

Have I not held them on my knee?

Did I not love to see them growing,

Three likely lads as well could be,

Handsome and brave, and not too knowing?

I sit and look into the blaze,

Whose nature, just like theirs, keeps climbing

Long as it lives in shining ways,

And half despise myself for rhyming.

What’s talk to them whose faith and truth

On War’s red touchstone rang true metal,

Who ventured life and love and youth

For the great prize of death in battle?

To him who, deadly hurt, again

Flashed on before the charge’s thunder,

Tipping with fire the bolt of men

That rived the Rebel line asunder?

Come Peace, not like a mourner bowed

For honor lost and dear ones wasted,

But proud, to meet a people proud,

With eyes that tell of triumph tasted.

Come with hand gripping on the hilt,

And step that proves you Victory’s daughter!

Longing for you, our spirits wilt

Like shipwrecked men on rafts for water.

Come, while our Country feels the lift

Of a great instinct shouting Forwards,

And knows that Freedom’s not a gift

That tarries long in hands of cowards.

Come, such as mothers prayed for, when

They kissed their cross with lips that quivered,

And bring fair wages for brave men,

A Nation saved, a Race delivered.

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