Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/334

302   And vast Katahdin o’er his woods, shall wear Their snow-crowns brighter in the cold, keen air;
 * And Massachusetts, with her rugged cheeks

O’errun with grateful tears, shall turn to thee,
 * When, at thy bidding, the electric wire
 * Shall tremble northward with its words of fire;

Glory and praise to God! another State is free!

Yorktown’s ruins, ranked and still, Two lines stretch far o’er vale and hill: Who curbs his steed at head of one? Hark! the low murmur: Washington! Who bends his keen, approving glance, Where down the gorgeous line of France Shine knightly star and plume of snow? Thou too art victor, Rochambeau!

The earth which bears this calm array Shook with the war-charge yesterday, Ploughed deep with hurrying hoof and wheel, Shot-sown and bladed thick with steel; October’s clear and noonday sun Paled in the breath-smoke of the gun, And down night’s double blackness fell, Like a dropped star, the blazing shell.

Now all is hushed: the gleaming lines Stand moveless as the neighboring pines; While through them, sullen, grim, and slow, The conquered hosts of England go: O’Hara’s brow belies his dress, Gay Tarleton’s troop rides bannerless: Shout, from thy fired and wasted homes, Thy scourge, Virginia, captive comes!

Nor thou alone: with one glad voice Let all thy sister States rejoice; Let Freedom, in whatever clime She waits with sleepless eye her time, Shouting from cave and mountain wood Make glad her desert solitude, While they who hunt her quail with fear; The New World’s chain lies broken here!

But who are they, who, cowering, wait Within the shattered fortress gate? Dark tillers of Virginia’s soil, Classed with the battle’s common spoil, With household stuffs, and fowl, and swine, With Indian weed and planters’ wine, With stolen beeves, and foraged corn,— Are they not men, Virginian born?

Oh, veil your faces, young and brave! Sleep, Scammel, in thy soldier grave! Sons of the Northland, ye who set Stout hearts against the bayonet, And pressed with steady footfall near The moated battery’s blazing tier, Turn your scarred faces from the sight, Let shame do homage to the right!

Lo! fourscore years have passed; and where The Gallic bugles stirred the air, And, through breached batteries, side by side, To victory stormed the hosts allied, And brave foes grounded, pale with pain. The arms they might not lift again, As abject as in that old day The slave still toils his life away.

Oh, fields still green and fresh in story, Old days of pride, old names of glory, Old marvels of the tongue and pen, Old thoughts which stirred the hearts of men, Ye spared the wrong; and over all Behold the avenging shadow fall!