VIII

We sit here in the Promised Land That flows with Freedom's honey and milk;

But 't was 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, 240
And will not please the ear:

I sweep them for a pæan, but they wane
Again and yet again

Into a dirge, and die away, in pain.
In these brave ranks I only see the gaps,
Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb
turf wraps,

Dark to the triumph which they died to gain:

Fitlier may others greet the living,
For me the past is unforgiving;

I with uncovered head

Salute the sacred dead,

250

Who went, and who return not. Say not

so!

Yea, Manhood hath a wider span And larger privilege of life than man. The single deed, the private sacrifice, So radiant now through proudly-hidden tears,

Is covered up erelong from mortal eyes With thoughtless drift of the deciduous years;

But that high privilege that makes all men peers,

That leap of heart whereby a people rise Up to a noble anger's height, And, flamed on by the Fates, not shrink, but grow more bright,

That swift validity in noble veins, 320 Of choosing danger and disdaining shame,

Of being set on flame

By the pure fire that flies all contact base

But wraps its chosen with angelic might, These are imperishable gains,

Sure as the sun, medicinal as light, These hold great futures in their lusty

reins

XI

Not in anger, not in pride,
Pure from passion's mixture rude 350
Ever to base earth allied,

But with far-heard gratitude,
Still with heart and voice renewed,
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,

360

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! 'T is no Man we celebrate, By his country's victories great, A hero half, 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 time 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 mantlehem.

370

Come back, then, noble pride, for 't is her dower!

How could poet ever tower,

If his passions, hopes, and fears, If his triumphs and his tears, Kept not measure with his people? 380 Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves!

Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple!

Banners, advance 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:

390

"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,

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! 410 No poorest in thy borders but may now Lift to the juster skies a man's enfranchised brow.

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, The rosy edges of their smile lay bare, What words divine of lover or of poet Could tell our love and make thee know it,

421

Among the Nations bright beyond com-
pare?
What were our lives without thee?
What all our lives to save thee?
We reck not what we gave thee;
We will not dare to doubt thee,
But ask whatever else, and we will dare!
1865,

The Atlantic Monthly, Sept.. 1865.

Came homeward in the morning-to find his house burned down.

Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly fought for freedom;

Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band;

And he and his brave boys vowed-so might Heaven help and speed 'em!— They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights the land;

II

And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Said, "Boys, the Lord will aid us!" and he shoved his ramrod down.

And the Lord did aid these men, and they

labored day and even,

Saving Kansas from its peril; and their very lives seemed charmed, Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light of Heaven,

In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed all unarmed; Then Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a terrible frown!

20

1 Printed without signature, under the title "John Brown's Invasion." Emerson, who is said to have often enjoyed reading this aloud to his family, included it in his volume of selections, "Parnassus."