Poor, petty employments they sometimes appear,
And on her bright needle there plashes a tear,--
Half shame and half passion;--what would she not dare
Her fervid compatriots' struggles to share?
It irks her,--the weakness of womanhood then,--
Yet such are the tears that make heroes of men!

She feels the hot blood of the nation beat high;
With rapture she catches the rallying cry:
From mountain and valley and hamlet they come!
On every side echoes the roll of the drum.
A people as firm, as united, as bold,
As ever drew blade for the blessings they hold,
Step sternly and solemnly forth in their might,
And swear on their altars to die for the right!

The clangor of muskets,--the flashing of steel,--
The clatter of spurs on the stout-booted heel,--
The waving of banners,--the resonant tramp
Of marching battalions,--the fiery stamp
Of steeds in their war-harness, newly decked out,--
The blast of the bugle,--the hurry, the shout,--
The terrible energy, eager and wild,
That lights up the face of man, woman and child,--
That burns on all lips, that arouses all powers;
Did ever we dream that such times would be ours?

One thought is absorbing, with giant control,--
With deadliest earnest, the national soul:--
"The right of self-government, crown of our pride,--