Classic Poem

There is no need, sweet moon! the night
With other splendor is bedight,
The dizened panes are all alight

With taper-gleams; and on the air,
Commingled with the rocket's glare,
A thousand torchlights flash and flare.

'T is late; but still, adown the street,
So gay with flags, I hear the beat
Of quick, exulting, restless feet;

And, over all, incessant swells
The jangle of the village bells,
And cannon booming o'er the dells;

For tidings thrilled us yesternight
Of a brave victory; how the fight
Was fearful, but God helped the right.

“The fight was fearful.” Oh! the pain
And grief and loss against the gain;
The joy of triumph, and its bane!

Of friends! dear friends! my pulses leap
Loyal as yours; yet I could weep
Above this pageant that we keep.

Bear with me; but my heart is sore
For our dead heroes; score on score
Shall see God's sweet light nevermore.

They loved like us: the belts they drew
Close for the fight zoned hearts as true
And warm as beat in me and you.

Their babes, like ours, were rosy-fair;
Had eyes as blue, as silky hair;
Their mother's hair and eyes,—ah, there

You touch the tender spot! pause, men!
Go home to wife and child,—and then,
If ye have heart to, shout again.

Ah well! God send the night come soon
When these mad bells another tune
Shall clamor to the listening moon;

When lights in every pane shall gleam,
And torches flash and rockets stream,
Responsive to the bells' glad theme,—

Freedom and peace: Great Power above!
Mate thou this eagle with this dove,—
The rule of right, the rule of love;

And bid their married wings brood o'er
This bleeding land of ours,—once more
At one, and free from shore to shore!