every vein;
      Mere time consumes her to the core;
    Her stubborn pride becomes her bane. 
    In vain she names her children o’er;
      They fail her in her hour of need;
      She mourns at desperation’s door. 
    Be thine the hand to do the deed,
      To seize the sword, to mount the throne,
      And wear the purple as thy meed! 
    No heart shall grudge it; not a groan
      Shall shame thee.  Ponder what it were
      To save a land thus twice thy own!”
    Use gave a more familiar air
      To my companions; and I spoke
      My heart out to the ethereal pair:—­
    “When in her wrath the Nation broke
      Her easy rest of love and peace,
      I was the latest who awoke. 
    I sighed at passion’s mad increase. 
      I strained the traitors to my heart. 
      I said, ‘We vex them; let us cease.’ 
    I would not play the common part. 
      Tamely I heard the Southrons’ brag: 
      I said, ‘Their wrongs have made them smart.’ 
    At length they struck our ancient flag,—­
      Their flag as ours, the traitors damned!—­
      And braved it with their patchwork-rag. 
    I rose, when other men had calmed
      Their anger in the marching throng;
      I rose, as might a corpse embalmed,
    Who hears God’s mandate, ‘Right my wrong!’
      I rose and set me to His deed,
      With His great Spirit fixed and strong. 
    I swear, that, when I drew this sword,
      And joined the ranks, and sought the strife,
      I drew it in Thy name, O Lord! 
    I drew against my brother’s life,
      Even as Abraham on his child
      Drew slowly forth his priestly knife. 
    No thought of selfish ends defiled
      The holy fire that burned in me;
      No gnawing care was thus beguiled. 
    My children clustered at my knee;
      Upon my braided soldier’s coat
      My wife looked,—­ah, so wearily!—­
    It made her tender blue eyes float. 
      And when my wheeling rowels rang,
      Or on the floor my sabre smote,
    The sound went through her like a pang. 
      I saw this; and the days to come
      Forewarned me with an iron clang,
    That drowned the music of the drum,
      That made the rousing bugle faint;
      And yet I sternly left my home,—­
    Haply to fall by noisome taint
      Of foul disease, without a deed
      To sound in rhyme or shine in paint;
    But, oh, at least, to drop a seed,
      Humble, but faithful to the last,
      Sown by my Country in her need! 
    O Death, come to me, slow or fast;
      I’ll do my duty while I may! 
      Though sorrow burdens every blast,
    And want and hardship on me lay
      Their bony gripes, my life is pledged,
      And to my Country given away! 
    Nor feel I any hope, new-fledged,
      Arise, strong