Classic Poem

Rouse ye at a nation's call, —
Rouse, and rescue, one and all!
Help, or liberty shall fall,
Fall in blood and shame!

Shame to him who coldly draws
Backward from the noblest cause!
Not to him who fights and fa's, —
His a glorious name.

Sons of more than mortal sires,
We have lit again their fires,
Or to be our funeral pyres,
Or our sun of fame.

Hear ye not the widow's cry?
" Help us, or we faint and die:
See! the murderous foe is nigh, —
Hark, the wasting flame!

" Whither shall we fly for aid?
Where is now the warrior's blade?
Low the mighty heart is laid,
Death alone could tame.

" To the mountain, to the cave,
Let us go, and weep the brave; —
Better die than live a slave, —
Better death than shame! "

No, — forbid it, chosen land!
Open wide thy helping hand, —
Pour thy corn and wine, like sand; —
What is wealth to fame!

Quick, before the flame expire, —
Feed, O, feed the holy fire!
Feed, and it shall kindle higher, —
Win a generous name!