A motley rout was that which came to stare,

In raiment tanned by years of sun and storm,

Of every shape that was not uniform, Dotted with regimentals here and there;

An army all of captains, used to pray And stiff in fight, but serious drill's despair,

Skilled to debate their orders, not obey;

Deacons were there, selectmen, men of note

In half-tamed hamlets ambushed round with woods,

Ready to settle Freewill by a vote,
But largely liberal to its private moods;
Prompt to assert by manners, voice, or

How many subtlest influences unite,
With spiritual touch of joy or pain,
Invisible as air and soft as light,
To body forth that image of the brain
We call our Country, visionary shape,
Loved more than woman, fuller of fire
than wine,

Whose charm can none define,

Nor any, though he flee it, can escape!

Why for his power benign seek an im purer source?

His was the true enthusiasm that burns long,

Domestically bright,

Fed from itself and shy of human sight, The hidden force that makes a lifetime strong,

And not the short-lived fuel of a song. Passionless, say you? What is passion for

But to sublime our natures and control To front heroic toils with late return, Or none, or such as shames the conqueror?

That fire was fed with substance of the soul

And not with holiday stubble, that could burn,

Unpraised of men who after bonfires