Bret Harte - Complete Poetical Works стр 3.

     Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands,
       And of armed men the hum;
     Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered
       Round the quick alarming drum,
           Saying, "Come,
           Freemen, come!
     Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick alarming drum.

     "Let me of my heart take counsel:
       War is not of life the sum;
     Who shall stay and reap the harvest
       When the autumn days shall come?"
           But the drum
           Echoed, "Come!
     Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn-sounding drum.

     "But when won the coming battle,
       What of profit springs therefrom?
     What if conquest, subjugation,
       Even greater ills become?"
           But the drum
           Answered, "Come!
     You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee answering drum.

     "What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder,
       Whistling shot and bursting bomb,
     When my brothers fall around me,
       Should my heart grow cold and numb?"
           But the drum
           Answered, "Come!
     Better there in death united, than in life a recreant.Come!"

     Thus they answered,hoping, fearing,
       Some in faith, and doubting some,
     Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming,
       Said, "My chosen people, come!"
           Then the drum,
           Lo! was dumb,
     For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered, "Lord, we come!"

     Not ours, where battle smoke upcurls,
       And battle dews lie wet,
     To meet the charge that treason hurls
       By sword and bayonet.

     Not ours to guide the fatal scythe
       The fleshless Reaper wields;
     The harvest moon looks calmly down
       Upon our peaceful fields.

     The long grass dimples on the hill,
       The pines sing by the sea,
     And Plenty, from her golden horn,
       Is pouring far and free.

     O brothers by the farther sea!
       Think still our faith is warm;
     The same bright flag above us waves
       That swathed our baby form.

     The same red blood that dyes your fields
       Here throbs in patriot pride,
     The blood that flowed when Lander fell,
       And Baker's crimson tide.

     And thus apart our hearts keep time
       With every pulse ye feel,
     And Mercy's ringing gold shall chime
       With Valor's clashing steel.

     Came the relief. "What, sentry, ho!
     How passed the night through thy long waking?"
     "Cold, cheerless, dark,as may befit
     The hour before the dawn is breaking."

     "No sight? no sound?"  "No; nothing save
     The plover from the marshes calling,
     And in yon western sky, about
     An hour ago, a star was falling."

     "A star?  There's nothing strange in that."
     "No, nothing; but, above the thicket,
     Somehow it seemed to me that God
     Somewhere had just relieved a picket."

     "Who comes?"  The sentry's warning cry
       Rings sharply on the evening air:
     Who comes?  The challenge: no reply,
       Yet something motions there.

     A woman, by those graceful folds;
       A soldier, by that martial tread:
     "Advance three paces.  Halt! until
       Thy name and rank be said."

     "My name?  Her name, in ancient song,
       Who fearless from Olympus came:
     Look on me!  Mortals know me best
       In battle and in flame."

     "Enough! I know that clarion voice;
       I know that gleaming eye and helm,
     Those crimson lips,and in their dew
       The best blood of the realm.

     "The young, the brave, the good and wise,
       Have fallen in thy curst embrace:
     The juices of the grapes of wrath
       Still stain thy guilty face.

     "My brother lies in yonder field,
       Face downward to the quiet grass:
     Go back! he cannot see thee now;
       But here thou shalt not pass."

     A crack upon the evening air,
       A wakened echo from the hill:
     The watchdog on the distant shore
       Gives mouth, and all is still.

     The sentry with his brother lies
       Face downward on the quiet grass;
     And by him, in the pale moonshine,
       A shadow seems to pass.

     No lance or warlike shield it bears:
       A helmet in its pitying hands
     Brings water from the nearest brook,
       To meet his last demands.

     Can this be she of haughty mien,
       The goddess of the sword and shield?
     Ah, yes!  The Grecian poet's myth
       Sways still each battlefield.

     For not alone that rugged War
       Some grace or charm from Beauty gains;
     But, when the goddess' work is done,
       The woman's still remains.

     This is the reed the dead musician dropped,
       With tuneful magic in its sheath still hidden;
     The prompt allegro of its music stopped,
       Its melodies unbidden.

     But who shall finish the unfinished strain,
       Or wake the instrument to awe and wonder,
     And bid the slender barrel breathe again,
       An organ-pipe of thunder!

     His pen! what humbler memories cling about
       Its golden curves! what shapes and laughing graces
     Slipped from its point, when his full heart went out
       In smiles and courtly phrases?

     The truth, half jesting, half in earnest flung;
       The word of cheer, with recognition in it;
     The note of alms, whose golden speech outrung
       The golden gift within it.

     But all in vain the enchanter's wand we wave:
       No stroke of ours recalls his magic vision:
     The incantation that its power gave
       Sleeps with the dead magician.