Ii

She cometh, cometh to-day: Hark! hear ye not her tread, Sending a thrill through your clay, Under the sod there, ye dead, Her nurslings and champions? Do ye not hear, as she comes, The bay of the deep-mouthed guns, The gathering rote of the drums? The belts that called ye to prayer, How wildly they clamor on her, Crying, 'She cometh! prepare Her to praise and her to honor, That a hundred years ago Scattered here in blood and tears Potent seeds wherefrom should grow Gladness for a hundred years!'