By WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Laydown the axe, fling by the spade;Leave in its track the toiling plough;The rifle and the bayonet-bladeFor arms like yours were fitter now;And let the hands that ply the penQuit the light task, and learn to wieldThe horseman's crooked brand, and reinThe charger on the battle-field.Our country calls; away! away!To where the blood-stream blots the green;Strike to defend the gentlest swayThat Time in all his course has seen.See, from a thousand coverts—seeSpring the armed foes that haunt her track;They rush to smite her down, and weMust beat the banded traitors back.Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave,And moved as soon to fear and flight,Men of the glade and forest! leaveYour woodcraft for the field of fight.The arms that wield the axe must pourAn iron tempest on the foe;His serried ranks shall reel beforeThe arm that lays the panther low.And ye who breast the mountain stormBy grassy steep or highland lake,Come, for the land ye love, to formA bulwark that no foe can break.Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mockThe whirlwind; stand in her defence:The blast as soon shall move the rock,As rushing squadrons bear ye thence.And ye whose homes are by her grandSwift rivers, rising far away,Come from the depth of her green landAs mighty in your march as they;As terrible as when the rainsHave swelled them over bank and bourne,With sudden floods to drown the plainsAnd sweep along the woods uptorn.And ye who throng beside the deep,Her ports and hamlets of the strand,In number like the waves that leapOn his long-murmuring marge of sand,Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim,He rises, all his floods to pour,And flings the proudest barks that swim,A helpless wreck against his shore.Few, few were they whose swords of oldWon the fair land in which we dwell;But we are many, we who holdThe grim resolve to guard it well.Strike for that broad and goodly land,Blow after blow, till men shall seeThat Might and Right move hand in hand,And Glorious must their triumph be.
Laydown the axe, fling by the spade;Leave in its track the toiling plough;The rifle and the bayonet-bladeFor arms like yours were fitter now;And let the hands that ply the penQuit the light task, and learn to wieldThe horseman's crooked brand, and reinThe charger on the battle-field.
Our country calls; away! away!To where the blood-stream blots the green;Strike to defend the gentlest swayThat Time in all his course has seen.See, from a thousand coverts—seeSpring the armed foes that haunt her track;They rush to smite her down, and weMust beat the banded traitors back.
Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave,And moved as soon to fear and flight,Men of the glade and forest! leaveYour woodcraft for the field of fight.The arms that wield the axe must pourAn iron tempest on the foe;His serried ranks shall reel beforeThe arm that lays the panther low.
And ye who breast the mountain stormBy grassy steep or highland lake,Come, for the land ye love, to formA bulwark that no foe can break.Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mockThe whirlwind; stand in her defence:The blast as soon shall move the rock,As rushing squadrons bear ye thence.
And ye whose homes are by her grandSwift rivers, rising far away,Come from the depth of her green landAs mighty in your march as they;As terrible as when the rainsHave swelled them over bank and bourne,With sudden floods to drown the plainsAnd sweep along the woods uptorn.
And ye who throng beside the deep,Her ports and hamlets of the strand,In number like the waves that leapOn his long-murmuring marge of sand,Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim,He rises, all his floods to pour,And flings the proudest barks that swim,A helpless wreck against his shore.
Few, few were they whose swords of oldWon the fair land in which we dwell;But we are many, we who holdThe grim resolve to guard it well.Strike for that broad and goodly land,Blow after blow, till men shall seeThat Might and Right move hand in hand,And Glorious must their triumph be.