By John Neal

Men of the North! look up!
There's a tumult in your sky;
A troubled glory surging out;
Great shadows hurrying by:
Your strength—Where is it now?
Your quivers—Are they spent?
Your arrows in the rust of death,
Your fathers' bows unbent?
Men of the North! Awake!
Ye're called to from the Deep;
Trumpets in every breeze—
Yet there ye lie asleep:
A stir in every tree;
A shout from every wave;
A challenging on every side;
A moan from every grave:
A battle in the sky;
Ships thundering through the air—
Jehovah on the march—
Men of the North, to prayer!
Now, now—in all your strength;
There's that before your way,
Above, about you, and below,
Like armies in array:
Lift up your eyes, and see
The changes overhead;
Now hold your breath! and hear
The mustering of the dead.
See how the midnight air
With bright commotion burns,
Thronging with giant shape,
Banner and spear by turns—
The sea-fog driving in,
Solemnly and swift;
The Moon afraid—stars dropping out—
The very skies adrift:
The Everlasting God:
Our Father—Lord of Love—
With cherubim and seraphim
All gathering above—
Their stormy plumage lighted up
As forth to war they go;
The shadow of the Universe,
Upon our haughty foe!