To thee old cause!
Thou peerless, passionate, good cause,
Thou stern, remorseless, sweet idea,
Deathless throughout the ages, races, lands,
After a strange sad war, great war for thee,
( I think all war through time was really fought, and ever will be really fought, for thee,)
These chants for thee, the eternal march of thee.
( A war O soldiers not for itself alone,
Far, far more stood silently waiting behind, now to advance in this book. )
Thou orb of many orbs!
Thou seething principle! thou well-kept, latent germ! thou centre!
Around the idea of thee the war revolving,
With all its angry and vehement play of causes,
( With vast results to come for thrice a thousand years,)
These recitatives for thee,— my book and the war are one,
Merged in its spirit I and mine, as the contest hinged on thee,
As a wheel on its axis turns, this book unwitting to itself,
Around the idea of thee.