Читать книгу Complete Poetical Works - Bret Harte - Страница 11

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Not ours, where battle smoke upcurls,

And battle dews lie wet,

To meet the charge that treason hurls

By sword and bayonet.

Not ours to guide the fatal scythe

The fleshless Reaper wields;

The harvest moon looks calmly down

Upon our peaceful fields.

The long grass dimples on the hill,

The pines sing by the sea,

And Plenty, from her golden horn,

Is pouring far and free.

O brothers by the farther sea!

Think still our faith is warm;

The same bright flag above us waves

That swathed our baby form.

The same red blood that dyes your fields

Here throbs in patriot pride—

The blood that flowed when Lander fell,

And Baker's crimson tide.

And thus apart our hearts keep time

With every pulse ye feel,

And Mercy's ringing gold shall chime

With Valor's clashing steel.