Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found release! 405 Thy God, in these distempered days, Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of His ways, And through thine enemies hath wrought thy peace! Bow down in prayer and praise! No poorest in thy borders but may now 410 Lift to the juster skies a man's enfranchised brow, O Beautiful! my Country! ours once more! Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled hair O'er such sweet brows as never other wore, And letting thy set lips, 415 Freed from wrath's pale eclipse, The rosy edges of their smile lay bare, What words divine of lover or of poet Could tell our love and make thee know it, Among the Nations bright beyond compare? 420 What were our lives without thee? What all our lives to save thee? We reck not what we gave thee; We will not dare to doubt thee, But ask whatever else, and we will dare! 425 ON BOARD THE '76. WRITTEN FOR MR. BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY. NOVEMBER 3, 1864. [After the disastrous battle of Bull Run, Congress authorized the creation of an army of 500,000, and the expenditure of $500,000,000. The affair of the Trent had partially indicated the temper of the English government, and the people of the United States were thoroughly roused to a sense of the great task which lay before them. Mr. Bryant, at this time, not only gave strong support to the Union through his paper _The Evening Post_ of New York, but wrote two lyrics which had a profound effect. One of these, entitled _Not Yet_, was addressed to those of the Old World who were secretly or openly desiring the downfall of the republic. The other, _Our Country's Call_, was a thrilling appeal for recruits. It is to this time and these two poems that Mr. Lowell refers in the lines that follow.] Our ship lay tumbling in an angry sea, Her rudder gone, her mainmast o'er the side; Her scuppers, from the waves' clutch staggering free, Trailed threads of priceless crimson through the tide; Sails, shrouds, and spars with pirate cannon torn, 5 We lay, awaiting morn. Awaiting morn, such morn as mocks despair; And she that bare the promise of the world Within her sides, now hopeless, helmless, bare, At random o'er the wildering waters hurled; 10 The reek of battle drifting slow alee Not sullener than we. Morn came at last to peer into our woe, When lo, a sail! Now surely help was nigh; The red cross flames aloft, Christ's pledge; but no,[10] 15 Her black guns grinning hate, she rushes by And hails us:--"Gains the leak! Ay, so we thought! Sink, then, with curses fraught!"