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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420887" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Yorktown</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">YORKTOWN.<br>FROM Yorktown's ruins, ranked and still,<br>Two lines stretch far o'er vale and hill:<br>Who curbs his steed at head of one?<br>Hark! the low murmur: Washington!<br>Who bends his keen, approving glance,<br>Where down the gorgeous line of France<br>Shine knightly star and plume of snow?<br>Thou too art victor, Rochambeau!<br>The earth which bears this calm array<br>Shook with the war-charge yesterday,<br>Ploughed deep with hurrying hoof and wheel,<br>Shot-sown and bladed thick with steel;<br>October's clear and noonday sun<br>Paled in the breath-smoke of the gun,<br>And down night's double blackness fell,<br>Like a dropped star, the blazing shell.<br>Now all is hushed: the gleaming lines<br>Stand moveless as the neighboring pines;<br>While through them, sullen, grim, and slow,<br>The conquered hosts of England go:<br>O'Hara's brow belies his dress,<br>Gay Tarleton's troop rides bannerless:<br>Shout, from thy fired and wasted homes,<br>Thy scourge, Virginia, captive comes!<br>Nor thou alone: with one glad voice<br>Let all thy sister States rejoice;<br>Let Freedom, in whatever clime<br>She waits with sleepless eye her time,<br>Shouting from cave and mountain wood<br>Make glad her desert solitude,<br>While they who hunt her quail with fear;<br>The New World's chain lies broken here!<br>But who are they, who, cowering, wait<br>Within the shattered fortress gate?<br>Dark tillers of Virginia's soil,<br>Classed with the battle's common spoil,<br>With household stuffs, and fowl, and swine,<br>With Indian weed and planters' wine,<br>With stolen beeves, and foraged corn, —<br>Are they not men, Virginian born?<br>Oh, veil your faces, young and brave!<br>Sleep, Scammel, in thy soldier grave!<br>Sons of the Northland, ye who set<br>Stout hearts against the bayonet,<br>And pressed with steady footfall near<br>The moated battery's blazing tier,<br>Turn your scarred faces from the sight,<br>Let shame do homage to the right!<br>Lo! fourscore years have passed; and where<br>The Gallic bugles stirred the air,<br>And, through breached batteries, side by side,<br>To victory stormed the hosts allied,<br>And brave foes grounded, pale with pain,<br>The arms they might not lift again,<br>As abject as in that old day<br>The slave still toils his life away.<br>Oh, fields still green and fresh in story,<br>Old days of pride, old names of glory,<br>Old marvels of the tongue and pen,<br>Old thoughts which stirred the hearts of men,<br>Ye spared the wrong; and over all<br>Behold the avenging shadow fall!<br>Your world-wide honor stained with shame, —<br>Your freedom's self a hollow name!<br>Where's now the flag of that old war?<br>Where flows its stripe? Where burns its star?<br>Bear witness, Palo Alto's day,<br>Dark Vale of Palms, red Monterey,<br>Where Mexic Freedom, young and weak,<br>Fleshes the Northern eagle's beak;<br>Symbol of terror and despair,<br>Of chains and slaves, go seek it there!<br>Laugh, Prussia, midst thy iron ranks!<br>Laugh, Russia, from thy Neva's banks!<br>Brave sport to see the fledgling born<br>Of freedom by its parent torn!<br>Safe now is Speilberg's dungeon cell,<br>Safe drear Siberia's frozen hell:<br>With Slavery's flag o'er both unrolled,<br>What of the New World fears the Old?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Greenleaf+Whittier">John Greenleaf Whittier</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420887" data-title="Yorktown de John Greenleaf Whittier" data-description="YORKTOWN.
FROM Yorktown's ruins, ranked and still,
Two lines stretch far o'er vale and hill:
Who curbs his steed at head of one?
Hark! the low murmur: Washington!
Who bends his keen, approving glance,
Where down the gorgeous line of France
Shine k..."></div>
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