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John Greenleaf Whittier - The Hive At GettysburgJohn Greenleaf Whittier - The Hive At Gettysburg
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IN the old Hebrew myth the lion`s frame, So terrible alive, Bleached by the desert`s sun and wind, became The wandering wild bees` hive; And he who, lone and naked-handed, tore Those jaws of death apart, In after time drew forth their honeyed store To strengthen his strong heart. Dead seemed the legend: but it only slept To wake beneath our sky; Just on the spot whence ravening Treason crept Back to its lair to die, Bleeding and torn from Freedom`s mountain bounds, A stained and shattered drum Is now the hive where, on their flowery rounds, The wild bees go and come. Unchallenged by a ghostly sentinel, They wander wide and far, Along green hillsides, sown with shot and shell, Through vales once choked with war. The low reveille of their battle-drum Disturbs no morning prayer; With deeper peace in summer noons their hum Fills all the drowsy air. And Samson`s riddle is our own to-day, Of sweetness from the strong, Of union, peace, and freedom plucked away From the rent jaws of wrong. From Treason`s death we draw a purer life, As, from the beast he slew, A sweetness sweeter for his bitter strife The old-time athlete drew!
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