America - Poem by Richard Hovey
We came to birth in battle; when we pass,
It shall be to the thunder of the drums.
We are not one that weeps and saith Alas,
Nor one that dreams of dim millenniums.
Our hand is set to this world's business,
And it must be accomplished workmanly;
Be we not stout enough to keep our place,
What profits it the world that we be free?
Not with despite for others, but to hold
Our station in the world inviolate,
We keep the stomach of the men of old
Who built in blood the bastions of our fate.
We know not to what goal God's purpose tends;
We know He works through battle to His ends.
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