I.

Armed soul that ridest through a land of peace, Her borders filled with finest of the wheat, Her children reaping, where with weary feet Sad sowers trod who taste not the increase: We hear thy trump, whose echo shall not cease, In hush of night resounding, while we meet Around unthreatened fires, but pressing fleet Thou passest, proud, to claim thy kin’s release; Thy trump, that doth arraign the entombèd Past, Till shapes that march as if with martyr-psalm In glow and gloom of kindly hearths we see: And now to present war a keener blast Calls loud, and spirits late content and calm Spring up enforced, and spur to follow thee!