I leaned against my gun still angry-hot, And my lids tingled with the tears held back; 20 This scorn methought was crueller than shot: The manly death-grip in the battle-wrack, Yard-arm to yard-arm, were more friendly far Than such fear-smothered war. There our foe wallowed, like a wounded brute 25 The fiercer for his hurt. What now were best? Once more tug bravely at the peril's root, Though death came with it? Or evade the test If right or wrong in this God's world of ours Be leagued with higher powers? 30 Some, faintly loyal, felt their pulses lag With the slow beat that doubts and then despairs; Some, caitiff, would have struck the starry flag That knits us with our past, and makes us heirs Of deeds high-hearted as were ever done 35 'Neath the all-seeing sun. [Footnote 10: The red cross is the British flag.] But there was one, the Singer of our crew, Upon whose head Age waved his peaceful sign, But whose red heart's-blood no surrender knew; And couchant under brows of massive line, 40 The eyes, like guns beneath a parapet, Watched, charged with lightnings yet. The voices of the hills did his obey; The torrents flashed and tumbled in his song; He brought our native fields from far away, 45 Or set us 'mid the innumerable throng Of dateless woods, or where we heard the calm Old homestead's evening psalm. But now he sang of faith to things unseen, Of freedom's birthright given to us in trust; 50 And words of doughty cheer he spoke between, That made all earthly fortune seem as dust, Matched with that duty, old as Time and new, Of being brave and true. We, listening, learned what makes the might of words,-- 55 Manhood to back them, constant as a star; His voice rammed home our cannon, edged our swords, And sent our boarders shouting; shroud and spar Heard him and stiffened; the sails heard, and wooed The winds with loftier mood. 60 In our dark hours he manned our guns again; Remanned ourselves from his own manhood's stores; Pride, honor, country, throbbed through all his strain: And shall we praise? God's praise was his before; And on our futile laurels he looks down, 65 Himself our bravest crown. AN INDIAN-SUMMER REVERIE.