Pro Patria by Julia Caroline Dorr — Free Audiobook

1 01 - The Dead Century 13:55

Lo, we come, bearing the century, cold and dumb, Folded above the mighty breast. Lie the hands that have earned their rest. Hushed are the grandly speaking lips, Closed are the eyes in drear eclipse, And the sculptured limbs are deathly still, Responding not to the eager will, As we come, bearing the century, cold and dumb. 2. Lo, we wait! Knocking here at the sepulchre's gate, souls of the ages passed away. A mightier joins your ranks today. Open your doors and give him room, buried centuries in your tomb. For calmly under this heavy pall sleepeth the kingliest of ye all, while we wait at the sepulchre's awful gate. III. Yet pause here, bending low o'er the narrow bier. Pause ye a while, and let your thought compass the work that he hath wrought.

Look on his brow, so scarred and worn. Think of the weight his hands have borne. Think of the fetters he hath broken, of the mighty words his lips have spoken. Who lies here, dead and cold, on a narrow bier? 4. Ere he goes, silent and calm to his grand repose, while the centuries in their tomb crowd together to give him room, let us think of the wondrous deeds, answering still to the world's great needs. Answering still! To the world's wild prayer, he hath been first to do and dare. Ah, he goes, crowned with bays, to his last repose. V. When the earth sang for joy to hail his birth, O'er the hill-tops, faint and far, glimmered the light of freedom's star. Only a poor pale torch it seemed, Dimly from out the clouds it gleamed.

Oft to the watchers I twas lost, like a flame by fierce winds rudely tossed. Scarce could earth catch one ray when she hailed his birth. VI. But ere long his young voice, like a clarion strong, rang through the wilderness Far and free, prophet and herald of good to be, then with a shout the stalwart men answered proudly from Mount and Glen. Till in the brave new western world freedom's banners were wide unfurled, and ere long the century's voice like a clarion strong. VII. Cried, O Earth! Peons sing for a nation's birth. Shout hosannas, ye golden stars, peering through yonder cloudy bars. Burn, O Sun, with a clearer beam. Shine, O Moon, with a softer gleam. Join, ye winds, in the coral strain.

Swell, rolling seas, the glad refrain. While the earth, Paeon sings for a nation's birth. VIII. Ah, he saw, this young prophet with solemn awe, How after weary pain and sin, Strivings without and foes within, Fruitless prayings and long suspense, And toil that bore no recompense. After peril and blood and tears, Honor and peace should crown the years. This he saw, while his heart thrilled with solemn awe. His clear eyes, gazing forward in glad surprise, saw how our land at last should be truly the home of the brave and free. Saw from the old world's crowded streets, pestilent cities, and close retreats. Forms gaunt and pallid with famine sore. Flee in hot haste to our happy shore. Their sad eyes widening ever in new surprise.

10. From all lands thronging they come in eager bands. Each with the tongue his mother spoke, each with the songs her voice awoke, each with his dominant hopes and needs, alien habits and varying creeds. Bringing strange fictions and fancies they came, calling old truths by a different name, when the lands sent their sons hither in thronging bands. XI. But the seer, this dead century lying here, rising out of this chaos saw, peace and order and love and law, saw by what subtle alchemy, basest of metals at length should be, transmuted into the shining gold, meet for a king to have and hold. Ah, great seer! This pale century lying here. 12. So he taught honest freedom of speech and thought, Taught that truth is the grandest thing, Painter can paint or poet sing, Taught that under the meanest guise, It marches to deeds of high emprise, Treading the paths the prophets trod.

Up to the very mount of God. Truth, he taught, claims full freedom of speech and thought.

Bearing long heavy burdens of hate and wrong, Still has the arm of the century been, Waging war against crime and sin. Still has he plead humanity's cause, Still has he prayed for equal laws. Still has he taught that the human race is one in despite of view or place, even though long it has wrestled with hate and wrong. 14. And at length a giant arising in his strength, the fetters of serf and slave he broke, smiting them off. By a single stroke. Over the Muscovites, waste of snows, up from the fields where the cotton grows. Clearly the shout of deliverance rang, when chattel and serf to manhood sprang, as at length the giant rose up in resistless strength. 15. Far Apart Each alone like a lonely heart, sat the nations until his hand wove about them a wondrous band, wrought about them a mighty chain, binding the mountains to the main.

Distance and time rose dark between, islands and continents still unseen. While apart, none felt the throb of another's heart. XVI. But to-day, time and space hath he swept away. Side by side do the nations sit, by ties of brotherhood closer knit. Whispers float o'er the rolling deep. Voices echo from steep to steep. Nations speak, and the quick replies fill the earth in the vaulted skies. For to-day time and distance are swept away. 17. If strange thrills quicken Rome on her seven hills, If afar on her sultry throne, India wails and makes her moan, If the eagles of haughty France fall as the Prussian hosts advance, All the continents, all the lands, Feel the shock through their clasped hands, and quick thrills stir the remotest vows and hills.

Yet these eyes, dark on whose lids death's shadow lies, let their far-reaching vision rest, not alone on the mountain's crest. Nor did these feet with stately tread follow alone Where the nations led. Now these pale hands, so weary worn, minister but where states were born. These clear eyes, soft on whose lips, death's slumber lies. 19. Turned their gaze, earnest and pitiful, on the ways, where the poor, burdened sons of toil earned their bread. Amid dust and moil. Saw the dim attics where day by day Women were stitching their lives away, Bending low o'er the slender steel, Till heart and brain began to reel, And their days stretched on and on in a dreary maze. 20. Then he spoke. Lo! At once into being woke, muscles of iron, arms of steel, nerves that never a thrill could feel, wheels and pulleys and whirling bands did the work of the weary hands, and tireless feet moved to and fro, where the aching limbs were wont to go, when he spoke, and all his sprites into being woke.

21. Do you say he was no saint who has passed away? Saint or sinner, he did brave deeds, answering still to humanity's needs. Songs he hath sung that shall live for aye, words he hath uttered that never shall die. Richer the world than when the earth sang for joy to hail his birth. Even though you say, he was no saint whom we sing to-day. 22. Lo, we wait, knocking here at the sepulchre's gate. Souls of the ages passed away. A mightier joins your ranks to-day. Open your doors, ye royal dead, and welcome give to this crowned head. For calmly under the sable pall sleepeth the kingliest of ye all, while we wait at the sepulchre's awful gate. 23 Give him room, proudly, centuries, in your tomb. Now that his weary work is done, honor and rest he well hath won.

Let him who is first among you pay, Homage to him who comes this day, Bidding him pass to his destined place, Noblest of all his noble race, Make ye room for the kingly dead in the silent tomb.

2 02 - The River Otter 5:35

The River Rotter. A Fragment. A Hundred Times the Summer's Fragrant Blooms. Have laden all the air with sweet perfumes. A hundred times along the mountain side, Autumn has flung his crimson banners wide. A hundred times has kindly winter spread, His snowy mantle over the violet's bed. A hundred times has earth rejoiced to hear The spring's light footsteps in the forest sear. Since on yon grassy knolled the quick, sharp stroke, Of the young woodman's axe the silence broke. Not then did these encircling hills look down, On quaint old farmhouse or on steeple town. No church spires pointed to the arching skies, No wandering lovers saw the moon arise. No childish laughter mingled with the song, Of the fair rotter as it flowed along.

As brightly then as now, our little wrecked, the joyous river when the sunshine flecked, its dancing waters that no human eye gave it glad welcome as it frolicked by. The long and counted years had come and flown, and it had still swept on and seen unknown bidding its time. No minstrel sang its praise, no poet named it in immortal lace. It played no part in legendary lore, and young romance knew not its winding shore. But in her own loveliness nature is glad, and little she cares for man's smile or his frown. In the ropes of a royalty still she is clad. Though his eye may behold not a sceptre or crown, and over our beautiful otter the trees swayed lightly rasnow in the frolicsome breeze, and the tremulous violet lifted an eye as blue as its own to the laughing blue sky.

The harebell trembled on its stem, down where the rushing waters gleam, a sapphire on the broidered hem of some fair night of the stream. The buttercups, bright-eyed and bold, held up their chalices of gold, to catch the sunshine and the dew, gaily rest those that bloom for you. And deep within the forest shade, where broadest noon mere twilight made, ten thousand small sweet senses swung, and tiny bells by Zephyr's rung. Made tinkling music till the day in solemn splendor died away. The woods were full of praise and prayer, although no human tongue was there. For every pine and hemlock sung, the grand cathedral isles among, and every flower that gemmed the sword looked up and whispered, Thou art God.

The birds sung as they sing to-day, A song of love and joy alway. The brown thrush from its golden throat poured out its long, melodious note. The pigeons cooed, the weary threw, its mellow thrill from spray to spray. The wild-night hawk its trumpet blew, and the owl cried, To wit to who? From set of sun to break of day. The partridge reared her fearless brood, safe in the darkling solitude. And the bold eagle built its nest, high on the tall cliff's craggy crest. And often when the still moonlight made all the lonely valley bright, down from the hills its thirst slake, the deer trot softly through the brake, while far away the spotted fawn Waited the coming of the dawn, and trembled when the panther's scream startled it from a troubled dream.

The black bear roamed the forest wide. The fierce wolf tracked the mountain side. The wild cat's silent stealthy tread was even there a fear and dread. The red fox barked a strange weird sound that woke the slumbering echoes round. And the burrowing mink and altar hit, In their holes the tangled roots amid. Lourdes of their limitless domain, Of hill and dale, of mount and plain, The wild things dream not of the hour When they should own their master's power.

3 03 - Past and Present 10:57

Driftwood. Grand, heroic, true. Faithful and brave, Thine earnest work to do. O glorious present. We rejoice in thee, thou noble nurse of great deeds yet to be. Hast thou not shown us that our mother earth, still in exultant joy, gives heroes birth? Do not the old romances that are youth, revered and honored as the truest truth, grow pale and dim before the facts sublime. Thy pen has written on the scroll of time. Ah, I never yet did poet's tongue, though like a silver bell it rung. Or minstrel, or his sounding lyre, breathing the old prophetic fire. Or harper in the storied walls of Scotia's proud baronial halls. Where mail-clad men with sword and spear, Weighted entranced the song to hear, That through the stormy midnight hour, First held them in its spell of power.

Ah, I never yet did they rehearse, In flowing rhyme or stately verse, The praise of deeds more nobly done, Or tell of fields more grandly won. We laud thee, we praise thee, we bless thee to-day, at thy feet, lowly bending, glad homage we pay. Thou hast taught us that men are as brave as of yore, that the day of great deeds and great thought is not o'er, that the courage undaunted, the far-reaching faith, the strength that unshaken looks calmly on death. The self-abnegation that hastens to lay, its all on the altar have not passed away. Thou hast taught us that country is more than a name, that honor unsullied is better than fame. Thou hast proved that while man can still battle for truth, even boyhood can give up the promise of youth, and yielding its life with a smile and a sign.

Say, "'Tis sweet for my God and my country to die. O heart-searching present, thy sons have gone down, to the night of the grave, in their day of renown. Thy daughters have watched by the hearthstone in vain, for the loved and the lost that returned not again. No spartans were they, yet with tears falling fast. Their faith and their patience endured to the last. And God gave them strength to their dearest to say, Go ye forth to the fight, while we labor and pray. Thou hast opened thy coffers on land and on sea, and broad-handed charity, noble and free, has lavished thy bounties on friend and on foe, like the rain that descending Fall softly and slow, on the just and the unjust, and never may know, the one from the other when the story is told.

By some age that looks backward, and calls thee the old, it shall puzzle its sages, all great as thou art, to tell which was greatest, thy head or thy heart. Mighty words thy lips have spoken. Strongest fetters thou hast broken, in his tones like those of thunder, when the clouds are rent asunder. Thou hast made the nations hear thee, thou hast bade the tyrants fear thee. And our hearts to-day proclaim them, as they oft have done before, fit to lead the glorious legions of the glorious days of yore. Yet still we pray thee, Vail a while. Thy splendor from our dazzled eyes, and hide the glory of thy smile. Lest our souls wake to new surprise, bear with us while our feet to-day retrace a dim and shadowy way.

In search of what it well may be, shall help to make us worthier thee. And now. O Spirit of the past, draw near, and let us feel thy blessed presence here. With reverent hearts and voices hushed and low, we wait to hear thy garments rustling flow. From all the conflicts of our busy life, from all its bitter and enduring strife, its eager yearnings and its wild turmoil. Its cares, its joys, its sorrows, and its toil, its aspirations that too often seem like the remembered phantom of a dream. We turn aside, this hour is thine alone, and none shall share the grandeur of thy throne. Ah, thou art here, beneath these whispering trees. Thy breath floats softly on the passing breeze. We feel the presence that we cannot see, and every moment draws on us nearer thee.

Could we but see thee with thy solemn eyes, in whom rare depths such wondrous meaning lies, the dark robes sweeping this enchanted ground, thy midnight hair with purple pansies crowned? Thy lip so sadly sweet, thy brow serene, there is no expectation. In thy mean. For thou hast done with dreams, nor joy nor pain, can e'er disturb thy placid calm again. What is this veil that hides them from our sight? Breathe it away, thou spirit, darkly bright. It may not be our eyes are dim. Perhaps with age, perhaps with tears, we hear no more the choral hymn. The angels sing among the spheres, weary and worn, and tempest-tossed, which have we gained, and something lost. Since in the sunbeam's golden glow, the rippling river's silvery flow, the song of bird or murmuring bee, the fragrant flower, the stately tree, the royal pomp of sunset skies, and all earth's varied harmonies.

We saw and heard what nevermore can earth or heaven to us restore, and felt a child's unquestioning faith in childhood's mystic lore. Yet could our voices reach the slumbering dead, who rest so calmly in yon grass-grown bed, this truth would seem with greatest wonder fraught, that they are heroes to our eyes and thought. For they were men who never dreamed of fame, they did not toil to make themselves a name. They little fancied that when years had passed, and the long century had died at last, another age should make their graves a shrine, and humble chapters for their memory twine. They simply strove, as other men may strive, full, earnest lives, in sober strength to live. They did the duty nearest to their hand, subdued wild nature as at God's command, laid the broad acres open to the sun, and made fair homes in forests dark and dun, built churches, founded schools, established laws, kindly and just and true to freedom's cause, resisted wrong, and with stout hands and hearts, In war, as well as peace, played well their parts.

Their men were brave, their women pure and true, their sons ashamed no honest work to do. And while they dreamed no dreams of being great, they did great deeds and conquered hostile fate. We laud them, we praise them, we bless them to-day, at their graves, as their right, tearful homage we pay. And the laurel-crowned present comes humbly at last, and bends by our side at the shrine of the past. With the hands that touch burdens unshrinking have borne, from the brow weary cares have so furrowed and worn. She takes off the chaplet and lays it with tears, that she cares not to hide at the feet of the years. Hark! A breath of faint music, a murmur of song, a form of strange beauty, is floating along.

On the soft summer air, and the future draws near, with a light on her young face, unshadowed and clear, two garlands she bears in the arms that not yet have toiled neath the burden and heat of the day. Lo! both are of Amareth fragrant. And wet, with the dew of remembrance, and fadeless alway. Oh, well may we hush our vain babblings and wait. He who merits the crown wears it sooner or late. On the brow of the present, the grave of the past, the wreaths they have earned shall rest surely at last.

4 04 - Vermont 19:05

Vermont by Julia Caroline Dorr. Written for the Vermont Centennial Celebration at Bennington. August 15, 1877. I.

O woman form majestic, strong, and fair, sitting enthroned, Where in upper air thy mountain peaks in solemn grandeur rise, piercing the splendor of the summer skies. Vermont, our mighty mother crowned to-day in all the glory of thy hundred years. If thou dost bid me sing, how can I but obey? What, though the lips may tremble, and the verse that fain would grandly thy deeds rehearse may trip and falter, And the stampering tongue leave all unrhymed the rhymes that should be sung. I can but do thy bidding as is meet, bowing in humble homage at thy feet, thy royal feet, and if my words are weak, O crowned one, twas thou didst bid me speak. 2. Yet what is there to say, even on this proud day? This day of days that hath not oft been said, What song is there to sing that hath not been sung?

What laurel can we bring that ages have not hung a thousand times above their glorious dead? What crown to crown the living is left for us our giving, that is not shaped to other brows that wore it long ago? Our very brows but echo vows breathed centuries ago. Earth has no choral strain, no sweet or sad refrain, no lofty paean swelling loud and clear that Virgil did not know, or Dante, wandering slow in mystic trances, did not pause to hear. When gods from high Olympus came to touch old Homer's lips with flame, the morning stars together sung to teach their raptures to his tongue. For him the lonely ocean moaned. For him the mighty winds intoned their deep-voiced chantings, and for him sweet flower-bells pealed in forests dim.

From earth and sea and sky he caught the spell of their divinest thought, while yet it blossomed fresh and new as Eden's rosebuds wet with dew. Oh, to have lived when earth was young with all its melodies unsung! The dome of heaven bent nearer then, when gods and angels talked with men, when song itself was newly born, the incarnation of the morn. But now, alas, all thought is old, all life is but a story told. And poet tongues are manifold, and he is bold who tries to wake, even for God or country's sake. In voice, or pen, or lute, or lyre, sparks of the old Promethean fire.

Three. And yet, O Earth, thank God! The soul of song is as immortal as the eternal stars. O trembling heart, take courage and be strong. Hark to a voice from yonder crystal bars. Did the roses blow last June? Do the stars still rise and set? And over the crest of the mountains are the light clouds floating yet. Do the rivers run to the sea with a deep, resistless flow? Do the little birds sing north and south as the seasons come and go? Are the hills as fair as of old? Are the skies as blue and far? Have you lost the pomp of the sunset? Or the light of the evening star? Has the glory gone from the morning? Do the wild winds wail no more? Is there now no thunder of billows leading the storm-lashed shore?

Is love a forgotten story? Is passion a jester's theme? Has valor thrown down its armor? Is honor an idle dream? Is there no pure trust in woman? No conquering faith in God? Are there no feet strong to follow in the path the martyrs trod? Did you find no hero graves when your violets bloomed last May, prouder than those of Marathon or old Praetius Day, when your red and white and blue on the free winds fluttered out? Were there no strong hearts and voices to receive it with a shout? O let the earth grow old, and the burning stars grow cold, and if ye will declare man's story told, yet pure as faith is pure, and sure as death is sure, as long as love shall live, shall song endure.

When, one by one, the stately silent years glide like pale ghosts beyond our yearning sight, vainly we stretch our arms to stay their flight. So soon, so swift, they pass to endless night. We hardly learn to name them, to praise them, or to blame them, to know their shadowy faces, ere we see their empty places. Only once the glad spring greets them. Only once fair summer meets them. Only once the autumn glory tells for them its mystic story. Only once the winter hoary weaves for them its robes of light. Years leave their work half done like men, alas! With sheaves ungathered, to their graves they pass and are forgotten. What they strive to do lives for a while in memory of a few. Then over all oblivion's waters flow.

The years are buried in the long ago.

But when a century dies, what room is there for tears? Rather in solemn exultation let us come, with roll of drama, not muffled as in woe, with blare of bugles, and the liquid flow of silver clarions, and the long appeal of the clear trumpets ringing. Peel on Peel, with clash of bells and host in proud array, to pay meet homage to its burial-day. For its proud work is done, its name is writ, where all the ages that come after it shall read the eternal letters, blazoned high in the blue dome of the impartial sky. What ruthless fate can darken its renown, or dim the lustre of its starry crown? On mountain peaks of time each century stands alone, and each, for glory or for shame, hath reaped what it hath sown.

5. But this, the one that gave thee birth, a hundred years ago, O beauteous mother, this mighty century, had a mightier brother, who from the watching earth, passed but last year, Twin-born, indeed, they were. For what are twelve months to the womb of time pregnant with ages? Hand in hand they climbed with clear, young eyes uplifted to the stars, with great strong souls that never stopped for bars. Through storm and darkness up to glorious day. Each knew the other's need, each in his breast the subtle tie Of closest kin confess'd, Counted the other's honor as his own, Nor fear'd to sit upon a separate throne, Nor loved each other less when, wonder's fate, One gave a nation life, and one a state.

Six. Oh, rude the cradle in which each was rock'd, The infant nation and the infant state! Rough nurses were the sentries that mocked at mother kisses, and for mother arms gave their young nurslings sudden harsh alarms, quick blows, and stern rebuffs. They bade them wait oft in cold and hunger, while the feast was spread for others, and, though last not least, gave them sharp swords for playthings and the din of actual battle. For mimic strife. What childhood glory's in? Yet not the less they love them. Spartans, they, who could not rear a weak, effeminate brood. Better the forest awful solitude. Better the desert spaces, where the day wanders from dawn to dusk, and finds no life.

Seven. But over all the tireless years swept on, Till side by side the centuries grew old, and the young nation, great and strong and bold, forgot its early struggles, in triumphs later won. It stretched its arms from east to west. It gathered to its mighty breast. From every clime, from every soil, the hunted sons of want and toil. It gave to each a dwelling-place. It bled them in one common race and over all. From sea to sea, wide flew the banner of the free. It did not fear the wrath of kings, nor the dread grip of deadlier things, gaunt famine with its ghastly horde, dishonor sheathing its foul sword, nor faithless friend, nor treacherous blow struck in the dark by stealthy foe. For over all its wide domain, from shore to shore, from main to main, from vale to mountain top, it saw the reign of plenty, peace, and law.

Eight. Thus fared the nation, prosperous, great, and free, profits and herald of the good to be, and on its humbler way, in calm content, the lesser state, The while serenely went, safe in her mountain fastnesses she dwelt, her life's first cares forgot, its woes unfelt, and thought her bitterest tears had all been shed, for peace was in her borders, and God reigned overhead.

Nine. But suddenly over the hills there came a cry that rent her with grief and shame. A cry from the nation in sore distress, stricken down in the pride of its mightiness. With passionate ardor up she sprang, and her voice, like the peal of a trumpet, rang. What ho! What ho! Brave sons of mine, strong with the strength of the mountain pine, to the front of the battle, away, away! The nation is bleeding in deadly fray. The nation, it may be, is dying to-day. On, then, to the rescue, away, away.

X. Ah, how they answered, let the ages tell, for they shall guard the sacred story well. Green grows the grass to-day on many a battlefield, for its dread alarms are o'er. Its scars are healed. Its bitter agony has found surcease. A reunited land. Clasped hands in peace. But, oh, ye blessed dead, whose graves are strewn from where our forest makes perpetual moan, to those far shores where smiling southern seas give back soft murmurs to the fragrant breeze. Oh, ye who drained for us the bitter cup, think ye we can forget what ye have offered up. The years will come and go, and other centuries die. And generation after generation lie down in the dust. But long as stars shall shine, long as Vermont's green hills shall bear the pine, as long as Killington shall proudly lift its lofty peak above the storm-cloud's rift, or Mansfield hail the blue, O'er arching skies, O'er fair Mount Anthony, in grandeur rise, So long shall live the deeds that ye have done, So deathless be the glory ye have won.

Not with exultant joy, and pride without alloy, Did the twin centuries rejoice when all was o'er. What though the nation rose triumphant o'er its foes? Though the state had gained, the meed of faith unstained. Their mighty hearts remembered the dead that came no more, remembered all the losses, the weary, weary crosses, remembered earth was poorer for the blood that had been shed, and knew that it was sadder for the story it had read. So clasping hands with somewhat saddened mind and eyes uplifted, To the great unseen that rules alike o'er centuries and men. Onward they walked serenely toward the end.

Twelve. One reached it last year. Ye remember well, the wondrous tale there is no need to tell. How the whole world bowed down beside its bire. How all the nations came from far or near, heaping their treasures on the mighty pall. Never had kingliest kings such funeral. Old Asia rose, and girding her in haste, swept in her jeweled robes across the waist, and called to Egypt, lying prone and hid where waits the sphinx beside the pyramid. Fair Europe came with overflowing hands, bearing the ridges of her many lands. Dark Afrique laden with her virgin gold, yet laden deeper with her woes untold. Japan and China in grotesque array, and all the enchanted islands of Cathay. 13. Today the other dies.

It walked in humbler guise, nor stood where all men's eyes were fixed upon it. Earth may not pause to lay a wreath upon its bire, nor the world he to-day our dead that lieth here. Yet well they loved each other, It and its greater brother, to loftiest stature grown. Each earned its own renown, each sought of time a crown, and each has won it. But what to us are centuries dead, and rolling years forever fled? Compared with thee, O grand and fair Vermont, our goddess-mother, strong with the strength of thy verdant hills, fresh with the freshness of mountain rills, pure as the breath of the fragrant pine, glad with the gladness of youth divine. Serenely thou sittest throne to-day, where the free winds that round thee play.

Rejoice in thy waves of sun-bright hair, O thou our glorious mother. Rejoice in thy beautiful strength, and say, Earth holds not such another. Thou art not old with thy hundred years, nor worn with toil, or care, or tears, but all the glow of the summer-time is thine to-day in thy glorious prime. Thy brow is fair as the winter snows, with a stately calm in its still repose, while the breath of the rose the wild-bees sips, Half mad with joy cannot eclipse the marvelous sweetness of thy lips, and the deepest blue of the laughing sky hides in the depths of thy fearless eyes. Gazing afar over land and sea, wherever thy wandering children be, fold on fold. Over thy form of grandest mold flowereth thy robe of forest green.

Now light, now dark, in its emeralds sheen, Its broidered hymn is of wild flowers rare, with feathery-ferned fronds light as air, fringing its border. In thy hair sprays of the pink arbuthus twine, and the curling rings of the wild grapevine. Thy girdle is woven of silver streams, its clasp with the opaline lustre gleams of a lake asleep in the sunset beams, and half-concealing and half-revealing Floats over all a veil of mist, pale-tinted with rose and amethyst. 15. Arise, O noble mother of great sons, worthy to rank among the earth's mightiest ones, and daughters fair and beautiful and good, yet wise and strong in loftiest womanhood. Rise from thy throne, and, standing far and high outlined against the blue, adoring sky, lift up thy voice and stretch thy loving hands in benediction o'er the waiting lands.

Take thou our fealty. At thy feet we bow, glad to renew each oft-repeated vow. No costly gifts we bring to thee to-day. No votive wreaths upon thy shrine we lay. Take thou our hearts, then, hearts that fain would be from this day forth, O Goddess, worthier thee.

5 05 - Gettysburg 1863-1889 11:55

Gettysburg, 1863-1889 by Julia Caroline Dorr. Read for LibriVox.org by Marianne Spiegel.

One. Brothers, is this the spot? Let the drums cease to beat. Let the tread of marching feet. With the clash and clang of steel and the trumpet's long appeal, Cry of joy and sob of pain in its passionate refrain, Cease a while. Nor beguile thoughts that would rehearse the story Of the past's remembered glory. Thoughts that would revive today, Stern war's rude, Imperious sway. Waken battle's fiery glow with its ardor and its woe, with its wild, exulting thrills, with the rush of mighty wills, and the strength to do and dare, born of passion and of prayer.

Two.

Let the present fade away, and the splendors of today. For our hearts within us burn, as our glances backward turn. What rare memories awaken as the tree of life is shaken, and its storied branches blow in the winds of long ago? Do ye not remember, brothers, ere the war days, how t'was said, grand, heroic days were over, and proud chivalry was dead? Still we saw the glittering lances gleaming through the old romances, still behind the watch-fires burning on the cloudy heights of time. And from fields that they had won, when the stormy fight was done, saw victorious nights returning, flushed with triumph's joy sublime. For the light of song and story kindled with supernal glory, plains where ancient heroes fought.

And illumined with a splendor rare and magical and tender all the mighty deeds they wrought. But we thought the sword of battle, long unused, had lost its glow, and the sullen war-gods slumbered where their altar-fires burned low. 3. Was the nation dull and sodden? Buried in material things, twas the chrysalis, awaiting the sure stirring of its wings. For when rang the thrilling war-cry over all the startled land, and the fiery cross of battle, flaming, sped from hand to hand, then how fared it, O my brothers? Were men false or craven then? Did they falter? Did they palter? Did they question why or when?

Oh, the story shall be told until the earth itself is old. How, from mountain and from glen, more than thrice ten thousand men heard the challenge of the foe, heard the nation's cry of woe, heard the summoning to arms. And the battle's loud alarms. In tumultuous surprise, lo, their answer rent the skies, And its quick and strong heart thrills Rocked the everlasting hills. Forth from blossoming fields they sped To the field with carnage red, Left the plowshare standing still, Left the bench, the forge, the mill. Left the quiet walks of trade and the quarry's marble shade. Left the pulpit and the court, careless ease and idle sport. Left the students' cloistered halls in the old, gray college walls.

Left young love dreams, dear and sweet. War's stern front, unblenched to meet.

Oh. The strange and sad amaze of those unforgotten days, when the boys whom we had guided, nursed and loved, caressed and chided, suddenly, as in a night, sprang to manhood's proudest height, and with calmly smiling lips, as who life's rarest goblet sips, dauntless, with unhurried breath. Marched to danger and to death. 4. Soldiers, is this the spot? Fair the scene is, calm and fair, in this still October air. Far blue hills look gently down on the happy, tranquil town. And the ridges nearby, steeped in autumn sunshine, lie.

Laden orchards, smiling fields, rich in all that nature yields. Bright streams winding in and out, fertile meadows round about. Lowing herds and hum of bee, birds that flit from tree to tree. Children's voices ringing clear. All we touch, or see, or hear, fruit of gold and silver set, tell of joy and peace.

And yet, soldiers, is this the spot that can never be forgot? Was it here that shot and shell poured as from the mouth of hell, drenching the shrinking? Trembling plain, with a flood of fiery rain. Was it here the awful wonder of the cannon's clashing thunder shook the affrighted hills, and made even the stolid rocks afraid? Was it here an armored host, like two clouds where lightnings play, or two oceans, tempest-tossed, clashed and mingled in the fray? Hear that, mid the din and smoke, roar of guns and sabre-stroke, tramp of furious steeds, where mown horse and rider, both o'erthrown, lurid fires and battle yell, forty thousand brave men fell.

Five.

O brothers, words are weak. What tongue shall dare to speak? Even song itself grows dumb in this high presence. Come forth, ye whose ashes lie under this arching sky. Speak ye in accents clear, words that we fain would hear. Tell us when your dim eyes, holy with sacrifice, looked through the battle smoke up to the skies. Tell us, ye valiant dead, when your souls starward fled, how from the portals far where the immortals are, chieftains and vikings old, heroes and warriors bold, men of whom old Homer sung, men of each age and tongue, knights from a thousand fields bearing their blazoned shields thronged forth to meet ye. Tell us how, floating down, each with a martyr's crown, they who had kept the faith, grandly defying death, they who for conscience' sake felt their firm heartstrings break, they who for truth and right, unshrinking, fought the fight, they who through fire and flame passed on to deathless fame, hastened to greet ye.

Tell how they welcomed ye, hailed and applauded ye, claimed ye as comrades true, brave as the world e'er knew, led your triumphant feet up to the highest seat, crowned ye with emaranth, laurel, and palm. 6. Alas! Alas! They speak not. The silence deep they break not. Heaven keeps its martyred ones beyond or moon or suns. And Valhalla keeps its braves, leaving to us their graves.

Then let these graves speak for them, as long as the wind sweeps o'er them, as long as the sentinel ridges keep guard on either hand, As long as the hills they fought for like silent watchtowers stand.

Seven.

Yet not of them alone round each memorial stone Shall the proud breezes whisper as they pass, Rustling the faded leaves on chilly autumn eves, And swaying tenderly the sheltering grass. O ye who on this field knew not the joy to yield your young, glad lives in glorious conflict up! Ye who as bravely fought, ye who as grandly wrought, draining with them war's darkly bitter cup. As long as stars endure, and God and truth are sure, while love still claims its own. While honor holds its throne, and valor hath a name, still shall these stony pages repeat to all the ages the story of your fame.

Eight.

O beautiful one, my country, thou fairest daughter of time. Today are thine eyes unclouded in the light of a faith sublime. No thunder of battle appalls thee. From thy woe thou hast found release. From the graves of thy sons steals only this one soft whisper, Peace.

6 06 - 'No More the Thunder of Cannon' 1:36

7 07 - Grant 5:33

Grant by Julia Caroline Doerr.

Grant August 8, 1885 God sends His angels where He will, From world to world, from star to star. They do His bidding as they fly, Whether or near or far. Whither it went, or what its quest, I know not. But one August day a great white angel through the far dim spaces took its way, until below it our fair earth, like a rich jewel, fitly hung, and emerald, set with silver gleams, in the blue ether swung. The angel looked. The angel paused. Then down the starry pathway swept, till mount and valley, hill and plain, beneath its vision slept. Poised on a far blue mountain peak, it saw the land from sea to sea, lifting in veiled splendor up the banner of the free. From tower and turret, spire and dome, from stately halls and cabins rude.

Where crag and cliff and forest meet in awful solitude. It saw strange, somber pennants float, black shadows on the summer breeze that bore, from shore to shore, the wail of solemn symphonies. It saw long files of armed men, clad in garb of faded blue, Pass up and down the sorrowing land as if in grand review. It saw through crowded city streets funeral trains move to and fro, with tolling bells and muffled drums and trumpets wailing low.

Descending then, the angel sought a stern, sad man of many cares. Ah! Oft before have mortals talked with angels unawares. The angel spake as man to man. What does this mean, O friend? it cried. These sad-browed hosts, these weeds of woe, this mourning far and wide.

The stranger answered in amaze, Know you not what the whole world knows? To his long home, thus grandly born, earth's greatest warrior goes. The foremost soldier of his age, the victor on full many a field, who saw the bravest of the brave to his stern prowess yield.

The angel sighed. That means, it said, tumult and anguish, pain and death. And countless sons of men borne down by the fierce cannon's breath.

Then passed from sight the heavenly guest, and from the mountain-top again took its far flight from north to south above the homes of men. But still, where'er it went, it saw the starry banners half-mast high, And tower and turret hung with black against the reddening sky. Still saw long ranks of armed men, who for the blue had worn the gray. Still saw the sad processions pass, darkening the summer day.

Was this their conqueror, whom you mourn, the angel said to one who kept lone watch where, deep in grass-grown graves, Young Southern soldiers slept.

Victor, yet friend, the answer came. In theirs who hear their lifeblood poured. He, when the bitter field was won, was first to sheathe the sword, and cry, O brothers, take my hand. Brave foemen, let us be at peace. O'er all the undivided land let clash of conflict cease.

The wandering angel went its way, from world to world, from star to star, where planet unto planet turned, and suns blazed out afar.

Learn, learn, O universe, it cried. How great is he whose foemen lay their love and homage at his feet, on this his burial day!

End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. And this is also the end of Pro Patria by Julia Caroline Dorr.

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