The nation calls aloud again,
For Freedom wounded writhes in pain.
Gird on your armor, Northern men;
Drop scythe and sickle, square and pen;
A million bayonets gleam and flash;
A thousand cannon peal and crash;
Brothers and sons have gone before;
A million more!—a million more!
Fire and sword!—aye, sword and fire!
Let war be fierce and grim and dire;
Your path be marked by flame and smoke,
And tyrant's bones and fetters broke:
Stay not for foe's uplifted hand;
Sheathe not the sword; quench not the brand
Till Freedom reign from shore to shore,
Or might 'mid ashes smoke and gore.
If leader stay the vengeance-rod,
Let him beware the wrath of God;
The maddened millions long his trust
Will crush his puny bones to dust,
And all the law to guide their ire
Will be the law of blood and fire.
Come, then—the shattered ranks implore—
A million more—a million more!
Form and file and file and form;
This war is but God's thunder-storm
To purify our cankered land
And strike the fetter from the hand.
Forced by grim fate our Chief at last
Shall blow dear Freedom's bugle-blast;
And then shall rise from shore to shore
Four millions more—four millions more.[CS]