_1st Stud_. But this war's can. In that small isle beyond the sea, Francis, Ages, ages ago, its light first blazed. This is the war. Old, foolish, blind prerogative, In ermines wrapped, and sitting on king's thrones; Against young reason, in a peasant's robe His king's brow hiding. For the infant race Weaves for itself the chains its manhood scorns, (When time hath made them adamant, alas!--) The reverence of humanity, that gold Which makes power's glittering round, ordained of God But for the lovely majesty of right, Unto a mad usurper, yielding, all, Making the low and lawless will of man Vicegerent of that law and will divine, Whose image only, reason hath, on earth. This is the struggle:--_here_, we'll fight it out. 'Twas all too narrow and too courtly _there_; In sight of that old pageantry of power We were, in truth, the children of the past, Scarce knowing our own time: but here, we stand In nature's palaces, and we are _men_;-- Here, grandeur hath no younger dome than this; And now, the strength which brought us o'er the deep, Hath grown to manhood with its nurture here,-- Now that they heap on us abuses, that Had crimsoned the first William's cheek, to name,-- We're ready now--for our last grapple with blind power. [_Exeunt_. * * * * * DIALOGUE II. SCENE. _The same. A group of ragged soldiers in conference_. _1st Soldier_. I am flesh and blood myself, as well as the rest of you, but there is no use in talking. What the devil would you do?--You may talk till dooms-day, but what's to hinder us from serving our time out?--and that's three months yet. Ay, there's the point. Show me that. _2nd Sol_. Three months! Ha, thank Heaven mine is up to-morrow; and, I'll tell you what, boys, before the sun goes down to-morrow night, you will see one Jack Richards trudging home,--trudging home, Sirs! None of your bamboozling, your logic, and your figures. A good piece of bread and butter is the figure for me. But you should hear the Colonel, though, as the time draws nigh. Lord! you'd think I was the General at least. Humph, says I. _3d Sol_. Ay, ay,--feed you on sugar-candy till they get you to sign, and then comes the old shoes and moccasins.---- _2nd Sol_. And that's true enough, Ned. I've eaten myself, no less than two very decent pair in the service. I'll have it out of Congress yet though, I'll be hanged if I don't. None of your figures for me! I say, boys, I am going home. _1st Sol_. Well, go home, and--can't any body else breathe? Why don't you answer me, John?--What would you have us do?-- _4th Sol_. Ask Will Wilson there. _1st Sol_. Will?--Where is he? _4th Sol_. There he stands, alongside of the picket there, his hands in his pockets, whistling, and looking as wise as the dragon. Mind you, there's always something pinching at the bottom of that same whistle, though its such a don't-care sort of a whistle too. Ask Will, he'll tell you.