I said, 'Their wrongs have made them smart.' At length they struck our ancient flag,-- Their flag as ours, the traitors damned!-- And braved it with their patchwork-rag. I rose, when other men had calmed Their anger in the marching throng; I rose, as might a corpse embalmed, Who hears God's mandate, 'Right my wrong!' I rose and set me to His deed, With His great Spirit fixed and strong. I swear, that, when I drew this sword, And joined the ranks, and sought the strife, I drew it in Thy name, O Lord! I drew against my brother's life, Even as Abraham on his child Drew slowly forth his priestly knife. No thought of selfish ends defiled The holy fire that burned in me; No gnawing care was thus beguiled. My children clustered at my knee; Upon my braided soldier's coat My wife looked,--ah, so wearily!-- It made her tender blue eyes float. And when my wheeling rowels rang, Or on the floor my sabre smote, The sound went through her like a pang. I saw this; and the days to come Forewarned me with an iron clang, That drowned the music of the drum, That made the rousing bugle faint; And yet I sternly left my home,-- Haply to fall by noisome taint Of foul disease, without a deed To sound in rhyme or shine in paint; But, oh, at least, to drop a seed, Humble, but faithful to the last, Sown by my Country in her need! O Death, come to me, slow or fast; I'll do my duty while I may! Though sorrow burdens every blast, And want and hardship on me lay Their bony gripes, my life is pledged, And to my Country given away! Nor feel I any hope, new-fledged, Arise, strong Glory, at thy voice. Our sword the people's will has edged, Our rule stands on the people's choice. This land would mourn beneath a crown, Where born slaves only could rejoice. How should the Nation keep it down? What would a despot's fortunes be, After his days of strength had flown, Amidst this people, proud and free, Whose histories from such sources run? The thought is its own mockery. I pity the audacious one Who may ascend that thorny throne, And bide a single setting sun. Day dies; my shadow's length has grown; The sun is sliding down the west. That trumpet in my camp was blown. From yonder high and wooded crest I shall behold my squadron's camp, Prepared to sleep its guarded rest In the low, misty, poisoned damp That wears the strength, and saps the heart, And drains the surgeon's watching lamp. Hence, phantoms! in God's peace depart! I was not fashioned for your will: I scorn the trump, and brave the dart!" They grinned defiance, lingering still. "I charge ye quit me, in His name