Battle Hymn of the Republic

Original Text: 
Final Version: Julia Ward Howe, Later Lyrics (Boston: J. E. Tiltor and Co., 1887); found in American Poetry: The Nineteenth Century, Vol. 1 (The Library of America, 1993), pp. 709-10. First version: Julia Ward Howe, Reminiscences 1819-1899 (Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin and Co., 1899), between pp. 276 and 277. PS 2018 A4 Robarts Library. For a good partial transcription, see Deborah Pickman Clifford, Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory: A Biography of Julia Ward Howe (Boston: Little, Brown, and Co., 1979). PS 2018 C55 Robarts Library.
2He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
3He hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword:
4    His Truth is marching on.
5I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
6They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
7I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.
8    His Day is marching on.
9I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:
10'As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;
11Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
12    Since God is marching on.'
13He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
14He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat:
15Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
16    Our God is marching on.
17In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
18With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:
19As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
20    While God is marching on.
##. Howe's First Manuscript Version
1Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.
2He is trampling out the wine press, where the grapes of wrath are stored,
3He hath loosed the fateful lightnings of his terrible swift sword,
4    His truth is marching on.
5I have seen him in the watchfires of an hundred circling camps
6They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps,
7I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps,
8    His day is marching on.
9I have read a burning Gospel writ in fiery rows of steel,
10As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal
11Let the hero born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
12    Our God is marching on.
13He has sounded out the trumpet that shall never call retreat,
14He has waked the earth's dull sorrow with a high ecstatic beat,
15Oh! be swift my soul to answer him, be jubilant my feet
16    Our God is marching on.
17In the whiteness of the lilies he was born across the sea
18With a glory in his bosom that shines out on you and me,
19As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
20    Our God is marching on.
21He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave
22He is wisdom to the mighty, he is sucour to the brave
23So the world shall be his footstool, and the soul of Time his slave
24    Our God is marching on.


1] Adopted informally as the song of the Union army in the American civil war, and sung to the tune of "John Brown's Body."

Howe describes her composition of this hymn in her Reminiscences (pp. 273-75) as follows:

I distinctly remember that a feeling of discouragement came over me as I drew near the city of Washington .... I thought of the women of my acquaintance whose sons or husbands were fighting our great battle; the women themselves serving in the hospitals, or busying themselves with the work of the Sanitary Commission. My husband ... was beyond the age of military service, my eldest son but a stripling; my youngest was a child of not more than two years. I could not leave my nursery to follow the march of our armies, neither had I the practical deftness which the preparing and packing of sanitary stores demanded. Something seemed to say to me, `You would be glad to serve, but you cannot help any one; you have nothing to give, and there is nothing for you to do.' Yet, because of my sincere desire, a word was given me to say, which did strengthen the hearts of those who fought in the field and of those who languished in the prison.

We were invited, one day, to attend a review of troops at some distance from the town. While we were engaged in watching the man°uvres, a sudden movement of the enemy necessitated immediate action. The review was discontinued, and we saw a detachment of soldiers gallop to the assistance of a small body of our men who were in imminent danger of being surrounded and cut off from retreat. The regiments remaining on the field were ordered to march to their cantonments. We returned to the city very slowly, of necessity, for the troops nearly filled the road. My dear minister was in the carriage with me, as were several other friends. To beguile the rather tedious drive, we sang from time to time snatches of the army songs so popular at that time, concluding, I think, with

`John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the ground;
His soul is marching on.'

The soldiers seemed to like this, and answered back, "Good for you!" Mr. Clarke said, `Mrs. Howe, why do you not write some good words for that stirring tune?' I replied that I had often wished to do this, but had not as yet found in my mind any leading toward it.

I went to bed that night as usual, and slept, according to my wont, quite soundly. I awoke in the gray of the morning twilight; and as I lay waiting for the dawn, the long lines of the desired poem began to twine themselves in my mind. Having thought out all the stanzas, I said to myself, `I must get up and write these verses down, lest I fall asleep again and forget them.' So, with a sudden effort, I sprang out of bed, and found in the dimness an old stump of a pen which I remembered to have used the day before. I scrawled the verses almost without looking at the paper. I had learned to do this when, on previous occasions, attacks of versification had visited me in the night, and I feared to have recourse to a light lest I should wake the baby, who slept near me. I was always obliged to decipher my scrawl before another night should intervene, as it was only legible while the matter was fresh in my mind. At this time, having completed the writing, I returned to bed and fell asleep, saying to myself, `I like this better than most things that I have written.'"

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Publication Start Year: 
Publication Notes: 
(Atlantic Monthly)
RPO poem Editors: 
Ian Lancashire
RPO Edition: 
RPO 1998.