The Hive At Gettysburg

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