To Thee, Old Cause!

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.

Thou orb of many orbs!

Thou seething principle! Thou well-kept, latent germ!

Thou centre!

Around the idea of thee the strange sad war revolv-ingrevolving,

With all its angry and vehement play of causes,

(With yet unknown results to come, for thrice a thou-sandthousand 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.