Through whose heart in such an hour 295
          Beats no march of conscious power,
          Sweeps no tumult of elation! 
          ’Tis no Man we celebrate,
          By his country’s victories great,
      A hero half, and half the whim of Fate, 300
          But the pith and marrow of a Nation
          Drawing force from all her men,
          Highest, humblest, weakest, all,—­
          Pulsing it again through them,
    Till the basest can no longer cower, 305
    Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall,
    Touched but in passing by her mantle-hem. 
    Come back, then, noble pride, for ’tis her dower! 
          How could poet ever tower,
          If his passions, hopes, and fears, 310
          If his triumphs and his tears,
          Kept not measure with his people? 
    Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves! 
    Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple! 
    Banners, advance with triumph, bend your staves! 315
      And from every mountain-peak
      Let beacon-fire to answering beacon speak,
      Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface he,
      And so leap on in light from sea to sea,
          Till the glad news be sent 320
          Across a kindling continent,
    Making earth feel more firm and air breathe braver: 
    “Be proud! for she is saved, and all have helped to save her! 
      She that lifts up the manhood of the poor,
      She of the open soul and open door, 325
      With room about her hearth for all mankind! 
      The helm from her bold front she doth unbind,
      Sends all her handmaid armies back to spin,
      And bids her navies hold their thunders in. 330
      No challenge sends she to the elder world,
      That looked askance and hated; a light scorn
      Plays on her mouth, as round her mighty knees
      She calls her children back, and waits the morn
    Of nobler day, enthroned between her subject seas.” 335

XI

    Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found release! 
      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! 340
    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,
        Freed from wrath’s pale eclipse, 345
    The rosy edges of their smile lay bare,
    What words divine of lover or of poet
    Could tell our love and make