e
for peace we covet for them?

August 18, 1914.

Footnotes:

[1] From the poem entitled "Wanted," by J. G. Holland.

[2] Edward Brooks.

[3] From "White Bees and Other Poems," by Henry van Dyke, copyright,
1909, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of Charles Scribner's
Sons, publishers.

[4] This lecture is found in full in Vol. XII (1915 Edition) of "Beacon
Lights of History," copyright 1902 by the publishers, Fords, Howard &
Hulbert, and is here used by special permission of Dr. Andrews and his
publishers.

[5] William McKinley.

[6] But one of these incidents is given in this extract.

[7] Henry Ward Beecher.

[8] John P. Newman.

POETRY OF PATRIOTISM

[Illustration: THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

New York Harbor]

[Illustration]

CONCORD HYMN[1]

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their dead redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

WARREN'S ADDRESS

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?
What's the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it--ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you!--they're afire!
And, before you, see
Who have done it! From the vale
On they come!--and will ye quail?
Leaden rain and iron hail
Let their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust!
Die we may--and die we must;
But, oh, where can dust to dust
Be consigned so well,
As where heaven its dews shall shed
On the martyred patriot's bed,
And the rocks shall raise their head,
Of his deeds to tell?

John Pierpont

PATRIOTISM

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own,