| |
[1861]
HO, woodsmen of the mountain-side! | |
| Ho, dwellers in the vales! | |
| Ho, ye who by the chafing tide | |
| Have roughened in the gales! | |
| Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot, | 5 |
| Lay by the bloodless spade; | |
| Let desk and case and counter rot, | |
| And burn your books of trade! | |
| |
| The despot roves your fairest lands; | |
| And till he flies or fears, | 10 |
| Your fields must grow but armèd bands, | |
| Your sheaves be sheaves of spears! | |
| Give up to mildew and to rust | |
| The useless tools of gain, | |
| And feed your country’s sacred dust | 15 |
| With floods of crimson rain! | |
| |
| Come with the weapons at your call— | |
| With musket, pike, or knife; | |
| He wields the deadliest blade of all | |
| Who lightest holds his life. | 20 |
| The arm that drives its unbought blows | |
| With all a patriot’s scorn, | |
| Might brain a tyrant with a rose | |
| Or stab him with a thorn. | |
| |
| Does any falter? Let him turn | 25 |
| To some brave maiden’s eyes, | |
| And catch the holy fires that burn | |
| In those sublunar skies. | |
| Oh, could you like your women feel, | |
| And in their spirit march, | 30 |
| A day might see your lines of steel | |
| Beneath the victor’s arch! | |
| |
| What hope, O God! would not grow warm | |
| When thoughts like these give cheer? | |
| The lily calmly braves the storm, | 35 |
| And shall the palm-tree fear? | |
| No! rather let its branches court | |
| The rack that sweeps the plain; | |
| And from the lily’s regal port | |
| Learn how to breast the strain. | 40 |
| |
| Ho, woodsmen of the mountain-side! | |
| Ho, dwellers in the vales! | |
| Ho, ye who by the roaring tide | |
| Have roughened in the gales! | |
| Come, flocking gayly to the fight, | 45 |
| From forest, hill, and lake; | |
| We battle for our country’s right, | |
| And for the lily’s sake! | |
| |
