An Appeal to the American Republic

Swords that clang sharp on heaven’s anvil, white With heat of God’s own forehead that beholds The building broken that is made of might, Nor builded firm on justice’ iron height, Nor is not cast in mercy’s sliver mould :— Swords sharp to slay, when vengeance must its fill Drink of the bloody rill Wherein men lave their mouths, arise and smite and kill. Listen all lands, and wonder ! For the night Rolls back her beaten iron, and the day Breaks, and the passionate heralds of the light, Armoured with love for panoply of might, Rush on the portals of the falling way. The lamps of heaven are dim while swords strike fire From rocks whose crests burn higher :— At their assault hell’s dogs gasp, totter, and expire All the gold gates are open of the East ; The rugged columns of the hills uphold A dome of changeless turquoise, and they feast, The sun’s lips, on the woods that have increased Since dawn with store of unimagined gold. The steam of many exhalations fair Sweetens the midday air ; Echo and tree and bud chant and give birth and bear. 8