Classic Poem

Is it the brass-mouthed clarion screaming so,
To rouse the warrior from his tented bed?
Is it the solemn trump God's angels blow,
Whose clang unbolts the tomb and wakes the dead?
O, no! it is the early cock, whose crow
Shakes the gold mists of slumber from my head,
And, like the battle-trump,—the judgment-morning,—
Of a new day, whose night is hid, gives warning.

Herald of light! admonisher, whose call
Shook the frail heart that dared deny its Lord!
So, to this day, when leaden slumbers fall
On souls whose sensual passions choke the word,
'T is thy bold, faithful voice that lifts the pall
Of self-oblivion, thou shrill-throated bird!
Startling the guilty soul, and rousing all
Spirits of life, that with a shudder, scorning
Dark self-deceit, expect the eternal morning.

Dash down yon dizzying cup of earthly lust,
Filled with the brown and poisonous juice of sleep,
And go thou forth, and, armed with better trust
Than thine own strength, climb duty's rugged steep.
Fear not!—high Heaven's right arm protects the just;—
Faint not!—whate'er thou sowest thou shalt reap.
Warrior of God, I heed the solemn warning,
And a glad day succeeds the dreariest morning.