BENEATH thy skies, November! <br />Thy skies of cloud and rain, <br />Around our blazing camp-fires <br />We close our ranks again. <br />Then sound again the bugles, <br />Call the muster-roll anew; <br />If months have well-nigh won the field, <br />What may not four years do? <br />For God be praised! New England <br />Takes once more her ancient place; <br />Again the Pilgrim's banner <br />Leads the vanguard of the race. <br />Then sound again the bugles, etc. <br />Along the lordly Hudson, <br />A shout of triumph breaks; <br />The Empire State is speaking, <br />From the ocean to the lakes. <br />Then sound again the bugles, etc. <br />The Northern hills are blazing, <br />The Northern skies are bright; <br />And the fair young West is turning <br />Her forehead to the light! <br />Then sound again the bugles,. etc. <br />Push every outpost nearer, <br />Press hard the hostile towers! <br />Another Balaklava, <br />And the Malakoff is ours! <br />Then sound again the bugles, <br />Call the muster-roll anew; <br />If months have well-nigh won the field, <br />What may not four years do?<br /><br />John Greenleaf Whittier<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-song-inscribed-to-the-fremont-clubs/
