BEFORE THE AMERICAN TROOPS GO INTO ACTION

W E wait and hold our breath, for it must come,
The hour of anguish which shall strike for all:
When, like a heavy and unyielding pall,
We know what we have sensed with pulses numb.
The measured march of Sorrow strikes us dumb. —
Imprisoned by our dread, as by a wall,
Breathless we wait, and neither rise nor call,
Yet tremble at the echo of the drum.
Oh! Spring that we have loved and welcomed oft,
When bursting buds acclaimed the new-born year,
We shudder at the thought of what you bring, —
Each breeze that murmurs softer and more soft
Hurries the breaking heart, the bitter tear, —
Death, the Intruder, tramples down the Spring!