Classic Poem

Scowl on ye dead that hug the dead, and cleave the air with cries.
While the slow hand of England clears the blood-mist from her eyes.
Ye shall not drug her back to sleep with songs that (slur) and brag,
Ye little bards that flaunt abroad the Union's tattered flag.
Ye shall not stay her holy hands with laughter or with wail
Go: cry aloud the Union's name: ye do not know its tale.

In the dark night of slaughtered kings when chaos roared in flood,
When all men's day was turned to dark; men's waters [turned to] blood.
When men were blind, and fury-led; that night in fear and [fright]
With nameless sounds and stifled cries and clash and groan of [fight]
With the hard fear that binds and slays, the hates that cringe and [yield],
The forts were filled, the fetters forged, the happy peace was sealed.
Go: sing your songs; no answer comes from ruin, rock or hill;
The Union held its secrets fast: it holds the secrets still.