TO MY READERS Nay, blame me not; I might have spared And some might say, "Those ruder songs The chestnut-burs await the frost." When those I wrote, my locks were brown, When these I write-ah, well-a-day! 10 The autumn thistle's silvery down Is not the purple bloom of May! Go, little book, whose pages hold O sexton of the alcoved tomb, It matters little, soon or late, A day, a month, a year, an age,— I read oblivion in its date, And Finis on its title-page. In many a battle's tempest It shed the crimson rain,— What God has woven in His loom Let no man rend in twain! To Canaän, to Canaän The Lord has led us forth, To plant upon the rebel towers What troop is this that follows, They'll pile up Freedom's breastwork, The Lord has led us forth, To strike upon the captive's chain What song is this you 're singing? To Canaän, to Canaän When Canaän's hosts are scattered, To Canaän, to Canaän The Lord has led us forth, To sweep the rebel threshing-floors, 20 30 40 50 60 |