ALICE OF MONMOUTH
VIII
1
Spake each mother to her son,
Ere an ancient field was won:
"Spartan, who me your mother call,
Our country is mother of us all;
In her you breathe, and move, and are.
In peace, for her to live—in war.
For her to die—is, gloriously,
A patriot to live and die!"
2
The times are now as grand as then
With dauntless women, earnest men;
For thus the mothers whom we know
Bade their sons to battle go;
And, with a smile, the loyal North
Sent her million freemen forth.
3
"What men should stronger-hearted be
Than we, who dwell by the open sea,
Tilling the lands our fathers won
In battle on the Monmouth Plains?
Ah! a memory remains,
Telling us what they have done,
Teaching us what we should do.
Let us send our rightful share,—
Hard-handed yeomen, horsemen rare,
A hundred riders fleet and true."
4
A hundred horsemen, led by Hugh:
"Were he still here," their captain thought,
"The brave old man who trained my youth,
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