Not lured by any cheat of birth,

But by his clear-grained human worth,

And brave old wisdom of sincerity! They knew that outward grace is dust;

They could not choose but trust

In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill,

And supple-tempered will That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust.

His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind,

Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars,

A seamark now, now lost in vapors blind;

Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined,

Fruitful and friendly for all human kind,

Yet also nigh to Heaven and loved of loftiest stars.

Nothing of Europe here, Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still,

Ere any names of Serf and

We sit here in the Promised Land

That flows with Freedom's honey and milk;

But 'twas they won it, sword in hand,

Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk.

We welcome back our bravest and our best;

Ah, me! not all! some come not with the rest,

Who went forth brave and bright as any here!

I strive to mix some gladness with my strain,

But the sad strings complain,
And will not please the ear;

I sweep them for a pæan, but they

Blow, trumpets, all your exultations

blow!

For never shall their aureoled presence lack:

I see them muster in a gleaming row, With ever-youthful brows that nobler show;

We find in our dull road their shining track;

In every nobler mood

We feel the orient of their spirit

glow,

Part of our life's unalterable good, Of all our saintlier aspiration;

They come transfigured back, Secure from change in their highhearted ways,

Beautiful evermore, and with the rays

Of morn on their white Shields of Expectation!

Not in anger, not in pride,
Pure from passion's mixture
rude

Ever to base earth allied,
But with far-heard gratitude,
Still with heart and voice re-
newed,

To heroes living and dear martyrs dead,

The strain should close that consecrates our brave.

Lift the heart and lift the head!
Lofty be its mood and grave,
Not without a martial ring,
Not without a prouder tread
And a peal of exultation:
Little right has he to sing

Through whose heart in such an
hour

Beats no march of conscious power,

Sweeps no tumult of elation!
'Tis no Man we celebrate,
By his country's victories great,
A hero ha'f, and half the whim of
Fate,

But the pith and marrow of a
Nation

Drawing force from all her men,
Highest, humblest, weakest,
all,

For her day of need, and then Pulsing it again through them, Till the basest can no longer cower

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,
If his triumphs and his tears,
Kept not measure with his peo-
ple?

Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves!

Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple!

Banners, adance with triumph, bend your staves!

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 Across a kindling continent, Making earth feel more firm and air breathe braver: