Page:Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems - Randall - 1908.pdf/151

 It pealed, like trumpets in the fray
 * That canonized Thermopylae;

It wailed o’er Warren, sad and shrill,
 * In the hot crash of Bunker Hill;

It wept wild music o’er the dart
 * That burst from Osceola’s heart,

And still fares forth, a choral wave
 * Upon the never-dying brave.

Such, such the heavenly-gardened seed
 * That flowers each immortal deed.

Such, such the spirit of the past
 * That nobly battles to the last,

And such the sunbeam of thy soul,
 * Grim Brutus of the Seminole!

And I—though pale-faced and thy foe,
 * Can laud thy joy and feel thy woe;

Would that a Homer’s magic lyre,
 * His Sybil lip, his tongue of fire,

Were mine but one great moment—then,
 * Statued with monumental men,

Thy ghostly form, rapt in renown,
 * Should stand with helmet, sword, and crown—
 * And who would dare to drag it down?