364 POEMS 
The swift sharp crack of rifle-shots in woods ; 
Into their memory swells 
The trumpet’s call, the screaming of the shells ; 
And ever and anon they seem to hear 
The far-off thunder of besieging guns, — 
All sounds of bygone war, all memories of the 
ear. 
III. 
A little while it seems 
Since those were daily thoughts which now are 
dreams. 
A little while is gone 
Since, the last battle fought, the victory won, 
We saw sweet Peace come back with all her 
charms, 
And watched a million men lay down their 
arms. 
But at this morning’s call 
We bridge the interval ; 
And yet once more, with no regretful tears, 
Live back again, though now men’s blood be 
cooled, 
Through the long vista of the fading years 
To days when Sumner spoke, and Andrew 
ruled. 
Iv. 
Courage is first and last of what we need 
To mould a nation for triumphal sway : 
