Peace! Sound the drums! The great roll call!
Ah, many to Fame's clarion note
Make answer; but not all!
Yet ye, our brave! have planted seed—
Not for a day, but distant times remote,
Which priceless from the fruitful earth shall spring,
In harvest of pure thought and noble deed,
To bless the Land we love, immortal blossoming.
Into the unresponsive past
On wingèd feet the years fly fast:
Scarcely we pluck the blooms of May,
A shadow on the wold is cast,
And, lo! it is December;
Yet, as a light to guide our way,
Some visions of a troubled day
Gone by we still remember.
And one there is, one image, full of rest,
A memory of manhood singly blest,
The savior of our Nation and her Chief:
Matchless in judgment, love, compassion, power—
The Man meet for the hour.
