Classic Poem

See where, beneath its sable shroud,
In gloomy majesty,
The rampart of the frowning cloud
Looms in the blackened sky!
From its dark bosom, frequent hurled,
The forked lightnings flash,
And sparkling fire-balls light the world,
And rattling thunders crash.

Lo where in crowds poor sinners lie,
With quivering lips and pale! —
" Spare, Lord of Sabaoth, " they cry,
" O, spare my peaceful vale!
Slay, if thou wilt, all creatures slay;
Root out the human race;
But spare me, Lord, my little day,
Wife, child, and dwelling-place! "

Ay, cowards, bend your necks in prayer!
Lie low and wait your death!
The God who looks yon lightning-glare
Shall trample out your breath!
The bell, that in the stormy hour
Tolls out the call to prayer,
Attracts the soonest to its tower
The hot, electric air.

But, lo! another, nobler band!
Death's terrors they defy.
In bristling armor there they stand,
Steel-clad, beneath the sky.
How firm their tread, — how calm they hear
The thunder's awful crash,
And eye the lightnings, that more near,
And ever nearer, flash!

What boots it here to quake and quail?
March on with fearless tread!
Swift action shall alone prevail
To crush the serpent's head!
Trust ye to armor? Well it may
Ward off the foeman's lance,
But calls down on your heads to-day
The lightning's vengeful glance!

No, — courage! — cheering victory
Is born of strangling fight!
See through the sky yon arrow fly!
It cleaves the cloud-born night.
Through! through! 't will go; — the bended bow
Spared not the string, I trow!
Straight to its mark the shaft will go,
And swims in sunlight now.

Through! brothers, through! Be this our mind
In sorrow and in strife!
The dust its native dust shall find,
The soul its heavenly life.
Shall we in earthly marshes rot?
Were the last day at hand,
Yet let the lightnings blaze, — fear not!
Through! There's your Fatherland!