SONNETS

The Land stood still to listen all that day, And 'mid the hush of many a wrangling tongue, Forth from the cannon's mouth the signal rung, That from the earth a man had pass'd away— A mighty Man, that over many a field Roll'd back the tide of Battle on the foe,— Thus far, no further, shall thy billows go. Who Freedom's falchion did right nobly wield, Like potter's vessel smiting Tyrants down, And from Earth's strongest snatching Victory's crown; Upon the anvil of each Battle-plain, Still beating swords to ploughshares. All is past,— The glory, and the labour, and the pain— The Conqueror is conquer'd here at last.