Classic Poem

O god, for the roar of battle,
For the bayonet's dancing shine,
And the long and merry rattle
Of musketry down the line!

And oh, for the cannons' crashing
From the battery on the hill,
And the swords of the horsemen flashing
As they charge with a right good will!

Away, like a whirlwind driven,
While a thrill through the sound earth runs;
Away in the smoke, blaze-riven,
Till we fall on the men at the guns.

And oh, for the broadsides shaking
The grim old hulls in the bay;
And the boat of the orderly making
Through the tempest its gallant way!

We are smitten with psychic languor;
Dry rot is benumbing our minds;
There is in us no love nor anger,
And our hearts are the hearts of hinds.

We are slaves of lucre and fashion;
It is custom our age that shapes,
Till we wed without heart or passion,
And are getting a race of apes.

Our women are all for money;
Each dupe of us buys his wife;
Their bosoms are wax without honey, —
They are marble, unloved to life.

There is freedom of speech no longer,
And scarcely freedom of thought,
For the man with the vault is stronger
Than the soul with an errand fraught.

The rich to the rich are brothers,
And the poor to the poor alone,
And the heart of the hero smothers
Like an acorn beneath a stone.

Then oh, for the trumpets' clamor
And the roll of answering drums,
And oh, for the fire and glamour
With the song of the fife that comes!

For I ween that the first deep thunder
Of the guns like a spell would fall,
And the smoke, ere it crept asunder,
Would enlarge and revive us all.

For the miser would give his treasure
Which he stifles his soul to save,
And the heiress would leap with pleasure
At the deeds of her father's slave.

They are selling ribbons — our heroes,
Our captains are weighing tea;
Our colonels are merchants' zeros,
Our admirals far from sea.

And it's oh, for the muskets' rattle,
And the fife's entrancing call,
For it's better to die in battle
Than never to live at all.