Eighteen hundred one and sixty, Rolls its direful weight upon us; Now the horoscope of nations, Opens wide its omens to us. In the mystic stars of fortune, Of the western constellation, Of the grand, united countries, On the continent of freedom, The astrologer now gazes On a weird and crimson shadow. Stars of fixed and cruel brightness, Stars of fitful gleam and shining. Stars of strange and faint illuming, Reads the national magician; Stripes of gory hue adorning, All the mammoth constellation; Stripes extending down the shadow Of the shifting, warning picture. What broad stream pursues its flowing, Through the fateful, dark camera? What bedews the starry emblem, With the startling shade of crimson? 'Tis, alas! the fearful shadow, Of contention and of vengeance; 'Tis the strife of human passion, In the hapless land of freedom; 'Tis the clash of angry foemen, Steel to steel in fierce encounter; 'Tis the symbol of a struggle, In the brave, aspiring nation. Not the tramp of foreign armies, On the soil we bought with bloodshed, Not the aid to captive strangers, In the distant, unknown countries; But the war at home and fireside, The assault of friend and brother, The array of kith and kindred, In one grand, domestic quarrel. And the soldiers went in legions, Went in tens and tens of thousands, Swarmed upon the fields of battle, Crowded tent and camp and barrack. And the city of Lancaster, Ever foremost in her duty, Gave her mite of men and warriors To the ranks and to the hardships, Gave her fighting men to suffer In the civil war that deluged All this mighty West Republic In eighteen hundred one and sixty.