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James Whitcomb Riley - The Drum
Work rating: Low

O the drum!
      There is some
          Intonation in thy grum
  Monotony of utterance that strikes the spirit dumb,
  As we hear
      Through the clear
          And unclouded atmosphere,
  Thy palpitating syllables roll in upon the car!

  There`s a part
      Of the art
          Of thy music-throbbing heart
  That thrills a something in us that awakens with a start,
  And in rhyme
      With the chime
          And exactitude of time,
  Goes marching on to glory to thy melody sublime.

  And the guest
      Of the breast
          That thy rolling robs of rest
  Is a patriotic spirit as a Continental dressed;
  And he looms
      From the glooms
          Of a century of tombs,
  And the blood he spilled at Lexington in living beauty blooms.

  And his eyes
      Wear the guise
          Of a purpose pure and wise,
  As the love of them is lifted to a something in the skies
  That is bright
      Red and white,
          With a blur of starry light,
  As it laughs in silken ripples to the breezes day and night.

  There are deep
      Hushes creep
          O`er the pulses as they leap,
  As thy tumult, fainter growing, on the silence falls asleep,
  While the prayer
      Rising there
          Wills the sea and earth and air
  As a heritage to Freedom`s sons and daughters everywhere.

  Then, with sound
      As profound
          As the thunderings resound,
  Come thy wild reverberations in a throe that shakes the ground,
  And a cry
      Flung on high,
          Like the flag it flutters by,
  Wings rapturously upward till it nestles in the sky.

  O the drum!
      There is some
          Intonation in thy grum
  Monotony of utterance that strikes the spirit dumb,
  As we hear
      Through the clear
          And unclouded atmosphere,
  Thy palpitating syllables roll in upon the ear!
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