Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/180

176 By their young footsteps roused, he'll haply raise His wasted hand, and point each fearful change Of Bunker's battle-day,—where the assault Kindled to wildest fury,—where the voice Of Prescott and of Putnam, nerved their troops To deeds of untold daring,—where the cry Burst forth when Warren fell,—where the dire flash Was hottest, and the life-blood of the brave Gushed reddest, till the kingly crest was bowed To infant Liberty. Then may they trace, Those childish listeners, on that furrowed brow The holy zeal of men of other days, Who sought no guerdon save their country's weal; And should that country need, so may they stand, When time hath knit their sinews, in the might Of the same heaven-born trust. And if the hands That never plucked a laurel in the fields Of iron warfare, nor the fitful weight Of empire poised, have lent their humble aid In woman's weakness, to cement thy stones, Think it no scorn, oh Column! but uprear Thy glorious head as proudly toward the cloud! For these, amid their sheltered, lowly sphere, Making the hearth-stone beautiful with love, And in the fountain of a nation's hopes Mingling sweet drops of purity and peace, Subserve the cause which thou art bound to praise, To far posterity.