Look West! There lie the hilly fields Where brothers fought through days of dread, Where mothers brooded o'er their dead, And soil the thrift of carnage yields; Where cannon roared and bullets sung, Till every hillock had a tongue. O Nation being and to be, That silent blood speaks loud to thee! God grant, if e'er our guns again Must tear the quivering flesh of men, The leaden hail-storm may be pressed Against some foul invader's breast-- Against some alien tribe and zone-- And not, as then, to kill our own! May all the fruitful strifes of peace The thrilling bonds of love increase; May yonder orb, in his quick change From mountain range to mountain range, From valley to rich valley o'er, From river shore to river shore, From wave to wave--may yonder sun One Nation count, and only one; Until he dips his fiery crest Into the ocean of the West! * * * * * Look up! The phantom clouds of gray-- Grim ghosts of storm--have passed away; The veiling of the sky is done, And downward shines the welcome sun. He kindles grand and peaceful fires Upon the city's domes and spires; He sends his strong magnetic glow Through yonder moving throngs below. Thou art, O sky serene and clear, A symbol of our country here! What land in all this world of pain, This earth, where millions toil in vain, Where famine, pestilence, and strife Play careless games with human life, Where Superstition clouds the soul, And heartless brains sad hearts control-- What country, framed in frost or flowers, Can see so clear a sky as ours? Peace throws her mantle, broad and free, O'er all who peaceable will be; Plenty her sheltering flag doth wave O'er those who will but toil and save; Enlightenment each day shall rise For all who do not cloud their eyes; While Liberty from every race Has made this land a refuge-place. Let our deep thanks forever fly Far as the reaches of the sky! [_From Farmer Harrington's Note-book._] NOVEMBER 5, 18--. Went to Mount Vernon; and I wouldn't have lost That trip, for fifteen hundred times its cost! Those farm-lands sleeping in the autumn sun; The house HE slept in when his work was done; The trees he planted with his own brave hand, That set out Freedom's trees all o'er the land: The humble tomb he lies in, which--like me-- Pilgrims from all the world have come to see: These look up in one's eyes and sadly smile, And preach a funeral sermon all the while! Even the river-boats upon their way Toll bells, as if he'd died that very day! And through it all this precept may be traced: The noblest men are simplest in their taste.