He shall file in front where the lines of battle form,
He shall face to front when the squares of battle form—­
Time with the column, and charge in the storm,

                    Where men are marching on.

Ah, foul Tyrants! do ye hear him where he comes? 
Ah, black traitors! do ye know him as he comes,
In thunder of the cannon and roll of the drums,

                    As we go marching on?

Men may die, and molder in the dust—­
Men may die, and arise again from dust,
Shoulder to shoulder, in the ranks of the Just,

                    When Heaven is marching on.

Glory, glory, hallelujah! 
Glory, glory, hallelujah! 
Glory, glory, hallelujah! 
His soul is marching on.

COMING

(APRIL, 1861)

World, are thou ’ware of a storm? 
Hark to the ominous sound;
How the far-off gales their battle form,
And the great sea-swells feel ground!

It comes, the Typhoon of Death—­
Nearer and nearer it comes! 
The horizon thunder of cannon-breath
And the roar of angry drums!

Hurtle, Terror sublime! 
Swoop o’er the Land to-day—­
So the mist of wrong and crime,
The breath of our Evil Time
Be swept, as by fire, away!

PSYCHAURA

The wind of an autumn midnight
Is moaning around my door—­
The curtains wave at the window,
The carpet lifts on the floor.

     There are sounds like startled footfalls
       In the distant chambers now,
     And the touching of airy ringers
       Is busy on hand and brow.

     ’Tis thus, in the Soul’s dark dwelling—­
       By the moody host unsought—­
     Through the chambers of memory wander
       The invisible airs of thought.

     For it bloweth where it listeth,
       With a murmur loud or low;
     Whence it cometh—­whither it goeth—­
       None tell us, and none may know.

     Now wearying round the portals
       Of the vacant, desolate mind—­
     As the doors of a ruined mansion,
       That creak in the cold night wind.

     And anon an awful memory
       Sweeps over it fierce and high—­
     Like the roar of a mountain forest
       When the midnight gale goes by.

     Then its voice subsides in wailing,
       And, ere the dawning of day,
     Murmuring fainter and fainter,
       In the distance dies away.

SUSPIRIA NOCTIS

Reading, and reading—­little is the gain
Long dwelling with the minds of dead men leaves. 
List rather to the melancholy rain,
Drop—­dropping from the eaves.

Still the old tale—­how hardly worth the telling! 
Hark to the wind!—­again that mournful sound,
That all night long, around this lonely dwelling,
Moans like a dying hound.