Never to see a nation born Hath been given to mortal man, Unless to those who, on that summer morn, Gazed silent when the great Virginian Unsheathed the sword whose fatal flash Shot union through the incoherent clash Of our loose atoms, crystallizing them Around a single will's unpliant stem, And making purpose of emotion rash, Out of that scabbard sprang, as from its womb, Nebulous at first but hardening to a star, Through mutual share of sunburst and of gloom, The common faith that made us what we are. That lifted blade transformed our jangling clans, Till then provincial, to Americans, And made a unity of wildering plans; Here was the doom fixed; here is marked the date When this New World awoke to man's estate, Burnt its last ship and ceased to look behind: Nor thoughtless was the choice; no love or hate Could from its poise move that deliberate mind, Weighing between too early and too late Those pitfalls of the man refused by Fate: His was the impartial vision of the great Who see not as they wish, but as they find. He saw the dangers of defeat, nor less The incomputable perils of success; The sacred past thrown by, an empty rind; The future, cloud-land, snare of prophets blind; The waste of war, the ignominy of peace; On either hand a sullen rear of woes, Whose garnered lightnings none could guess, Piling its thunder-heads and muttering "Cease!" Yet drew not back his hand, but gravely chose The seeming-desperate task whence our new nation rose. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. Tory balladists found rich material for their rhymes in the undisciplined and motley army of which Washington was the head, but, strangely enough, the commander himself was the object of very few attacks of this kind. The following is almost the only one which has survived. THE TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE [July 3, 1775] When Congress sent great Washington All clothed in power and breeches, To meet old Britain's warlike sons And make some rebel speeches; 'Twas then he took his gloomy way Astride his dapple donkeys, And travelled well, both night and day, Until he reach'd the Yankees. Away from camp, 'bout three miles off, From Lily he dismounted. His sergeant brush'd his sun-burnt wig While he the specie counted. All prinkèd up in _full_ bag-wig; The shaking notwithstanding, In leathers tight, oh! glorious sight! He reach'd the Yankee landing. The women ran, the darkeys too; And all the bells, they tollèd; For Britain's sons, by Doodle doo, We're sure to be--consolèd. Old mother Hancock with a pan All crowded full of butter, Unto the lovely Georgius ran, And added to the splutter. Says she, "Our brindle has just calved, And John is wondrous happy. He sent this present to you, dear, As you're the 'country's papa.'"--