[April, 1861] world, art thou ’ware of a storm? Hark to the ominous sound; How the far-off gales their battle form, And the great sea-swells feel ground! It comes, the Typhoon of Death— Nearer and nearer it comes! The horizon thunder of cannon-breath And the roar of angry drums! Hurtle, Terror sublime! Swoop o’er the Land to-day— So the mist of wrong and crime, The breath of our Evil Time Be swept, as by fire, away!
Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays Now divers birds are heard to sing, And sundry flowers their heads upraise, Hail to the coming on of spring! The songs of those said birds arouse The memory of our youthful hours, As green as those said sprays and boughs, As fresh and sweet as those...
[April, 1861] world, art thou ’ware of a storm? Hark to the ominous sound; How the far-off gales their battle form, And the great sea-swells feel ground! It comes, the Typhoon of Death— Nearer and nearer it comes! The horizon thunder of cannon-breath And the roar of angry drums!...
John Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the grave, John Brown’s body lies slumbering in his grave— But John Brown’s soul is marching with the brave, His soul is marching on. Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah...
They glare—those stony eyes! That in the fierce sun-rays Showered from these burning skies, Through untold centuries Have kept their sleepless and unwinking gaze. Since what unnumbered year Hast thou kept watch and ward, And o’er the buried Land of Fear So grimly held thy guard? No...
Blue gulf all around us, Blue sky overhead— Muster all on the quarter, We must bury the dead! It is but a Danish sailor, Rugged of front and form; A common son of the forecastle, Grizzled with sun and storm. His name, and the strand he hailed from We know, and there ’s nothing more!...
