wanted.—a theme.
65
I could write on the wars, mother, the soldier's glorious life,—
I sometimes think it is my forte to sing of scenes of strife;
But I 've avowed "peace principles," and may not call them back,
So I cannot write of war, mother,—I must take another tack.
I sometimes think it is my forte to sing of scenes of strife;
But I 've avowed "peace principles," and may not call them back,
So I cannot write of war, mother,—I must take another tack.
The terrible might do, mother,—some wild, unearthly story;
I might ride, for a Pegasus, a nightmare into glory,
But then that "Raven" there, mother, above that "chamber-door,"
I asked him if 't would be a hit,—quoth the raven, "Never more!"
I might ride, for a Pegasus, a nightmare into glory,
But then that "Raven" there, mother, above that "chamber-door,"
I asked him if 't would be a hit,—quoth the raven, "Never more!"
I might plead for the poor, mother, the wronged and the oppressed,
And give a flash of freedom's fire, deep burning in my breast;
But they 'd say I was a fanatic a-battling with weak straws
Against the mighty Union, and the almighty laws.
And give a flash of freedom's fire, deep burning in my breast;
But they 'd say I was a fanatic a-battling with weak straws
Against the mighty Union, and the almighty laws.
