Ode for General Washington's Birthday
No Spartan tube, no Attic shell,
No lyre Aeolian I awake;
'Tis liberty's bold note I swell,
Thy harp, Columbia, let me take!
See gathering thousands, while I sing,
A broken chain exulting bring,
And dash it in a tyrant's face,
And dare him to his very beard,
And tell him he no more is feared-
No more the despot of Columbia's race!
A tyrant's proudest insults brav'd,
They shout-a People freed! They hail an Empire saved.
Where is man's god-like form?
Where is that brow erect and bold-
That eye that can unmov'd behold
The wildest rage, the loudest storm
That e'er created fury dared to raise?
Avaunt! thou caitiff, servile, base,
That tremblest at a despot's nod,
Yet, crouching under the iron rod,
Canst laud the hand that struck th' insulting blow!
Art thou of man's Imperial line?
Dost boast that countenance divine?
Each skulking feature answers, No!
But come, ye sons of Liberty,
Columbia's offspring, brave as free,
In danger's hour still flaming in the van,
Ye know, and dare maintain, the Royalty of Man!
Alfred! on thy starry throne,
Surrounded by the tuneful choir,
The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,
And rous'd the freeborn Briton's soul of fire,
No more thy England own!
Dare injured nations form the great design,
To make detested tyrants bleed?
Thy England execrates the glorious deed!
Beneath her hostile banners waving,
Every pang of honour braving,
England in thunder calls, "The tyrant's cause is mine!"
That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice
And hell, thro' all her confines, raise the exulting voice,
That hour which saw the generous English name
Linkt with such damned deeds of everlasting shame!
Thee, Caledonia! thy wild heaths among,
Fam'd for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of Freedom fled?
Immingled with the mighty dead,
Beneath that hallow'd turf where Wallace lies
Hear it not, Wallace! in thy bed of death.
Ye babbling winds! in silence sweep,
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,
Nor give the coward secret breath!
Is this the ancient Caledonian form,
Firm as the rock, resistless as the storm?
Show me that eye which shot immortal hate,
Blasting the despot's proudest bearing;
Show me that arm which, nerv'd with thundering fate,
Crush'd Usurpation's boldest daring!-
Dark-quench'd as yonder sinking star,
No more that glance lightens afar;
That palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of war.
poem by Robert Burns
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The Crown Of Empire
Free is the wind that lashes into foam
The fortress waves that gird the Sea-King’s home
And free the war-worn Flag that is our fame
That fear, nor treason, nor the Storm-God’s might,
Nor the leagued banners of the World can shame
When Britain arms for Honour and the Right.
And free the hearts that on this golden day
Bear willing witness to the Sea-King’s sway:
From world-wide realms washed by the world-wide sea
They turn, O Throne of Freedom, unto Thee.
Homeward they turn from many a lonely place,
Maker of Nations, Mother of the Race,
Homeward to Thee, where, in this solemn hour
Of mightiest Empire, Thou hast called once more
A Royal Son to wield Imperial power
And wear the crown that Saxon Alfred wore—
Sceptre and orb that a great Queen laid down,
Lustrous with wisdom, foremost in renown,
Whilst o’er them shone, all glittering gems above,
The Star of Duty and the Pearl of Love.
Europe is here, and Asia: and the West
Lifts ’mid the throng its dauntless Eagle’s crest.
Lo! They are gathered—prince and peer and lord,
And great ambassadors of mighty States,
And utmost Nations—not with naked sword,
But to do Britain honour in her gates.
The splendour of this large, historic hour,
This dazzling pageant of Imperial power,
Surrounds a King whose proudest boast shall be
The hearts that hail him Emperor of the Free.
O Sire August, within these Abbey walls
To thee the sacred dust of Britain calls
To rule the realm that shook the strength of Spain,
And struck th’ accursèd fetter from the slave—
That tore from Europe’s neck the Despot’s chain,
And, for a pledge of Freedom, o’er the wave
Has set its Flag forever—not alone—
The fairest face that ever graced a throne,
Queen of our Hearts, is with Thee as we sing:—
“An Empire’s love is their’s: God Save the King!”
Unbar your ocean-guarded gates, make wide
Your streets, Imperial City of our Pride!
Hark, with the voice of millions, rolling deep,
The world salutes thee on this Royal morn.
Strong as thine island-rock when surges sweep
Thy throne stands steadfast; round it there is born
The silent vow that prince and peasant make
Ere they go down to death for Freedom’s sake,
And, dying, know sons of their sons will be
As swift to guard the Sceptre of the Sea.
O Pillars of an Empire dwarfing Rome,
From the four corners of the world you come.
The strong Sea-Lion calls around his throne
His ancient heirs, his war-worn younger sons.
Bring Heath and Vine from hills of Southern stone.
And Myrtle, where the twining rata runs,—
Wreaths from our Empire-Garden, where, between
The purple Thistle and the Shamrock green,
The snow-white Lotus by the Maple shows,
The yellow Wattle by the English Rose.
This is a Southern Song blown oversea
From mighty States now linked in unity,—
From that far island continent that lies
Gigantic on the waters, throned, apart,
Robed with the splendour of Australian skies—
First to draw sword, when, with a single heart,
From every frontier line of Empire rose
New Britains armed to meet Britannia’s foes,
Whose voices thunder, as the joy-bells ring
Loud from ten thousand spires: “God Save the King!”
poem by George Essex Evans
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The War
There is a sound of thunder afar,
Storm in the south that darkens the day,
Storm of battle and thunder of war,
Well, if it do not roll our way.
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
Be not deaf to the sound that warns!
Be not gull'd by a despot's plea!
Are figs of thistles or grapes of thorns?
How should a despot set men free?
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
Let your Reforms for a moment go,
Look to your butts and make good aims.
Better a rotten borough or so,
Than a rotten fleet or a city of flames!
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
Form, be ready to do or die!
Form in freedom's name and the Queen's!
True, that we have a faithful ally,
But only the devil knows what he means!
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Ode to Peace
I.
She comes, benign enchantress, heav'n born PEACE!
With mercy beaming in her radiant eye;
She bids the horrid din of battle cease,
And at her glance the savage passions die.
'Tis Nature's festival, let earth rejoice,
And pour to Liberty exulting songs,
In distant regions, with according voice,
Let Man the vict'ry bless, its prize to Man belongs.
II.
Resistless Freedom! when she nerves the arm,
No vulgar triumph crowns the hero's might;
She, she alone can spread a moral charm
O'er war's fell deeds, and sanctify the fight.
O, GALLIA ! in this bright immortal hour,
How proud a trophy binds thy laurel'd brow!
Republic, hail! whose independent power
All earth contested once, all earth confesses now.
III.
Protecting spirits of the glorious dead!
Ah, not in vain the hero's noble toil,
Ah, not in vain the patriot's blood is shed,
That blood shall consecrate his native soil.
Illustrious names! to hist'ry's record dear,
And breath'd when some high impulse fires the bard,
For you shall virtue pour the glowing tear,
And your remember'd deeds shall still your country guard.
IV.
And thou, lov'd BRITAIN , my parental Isle!
Secure, encircled by thy subject waves,
Thou, land august, where Freedom rear'd her pile,
While gothic night obscur'd a world of slaves;
Thy genius, that indignant heard the shock
Of frantic combat, strife unmeet for thee,
Now views triumphant, from his sea-girt rock,
Thee unsubdued alone, for thou alone wert free!
V.
O, happy thy misguided efforts fail'd,
My Country! when with tyrant-hosts combin'd--
O, hideous conquest, had thy sword prevail'd,
And crown'd the impious league against mankind!
Thou nurse of great design, of lofty thought,
What homicide, had thy insensate rage
Effac'd the sacred lesson thou hast taught,
And with thy purest blood inscrib'd on glory's page.
VI.
Ah, rather haste to Concord's holy shrine,
Ye rival nations, haste with joy elate;
Your blending garlands round her altar twine,
And bind the wounds of no immortal hate:
Go--breathe responsive rituals o'er the sod
Where Freedom martyrs press an early grave;
Go--vow that never shall their turf be trod
By the polluting step of tyrant or of slave.
VII.
And from your shores the abject vices chase,
That low Ambition generous souls disdain,
Corruption blasting every moral grace,
Servility that kneels to bless his chain;
O, Liberty, those demons far remove,
Come, nymph severely good, sublimely great!
Nor to the raptur'd hope of mortals prove
Like those illusive dreams that pass the iv'ry gate.
VII.
New Age! that roll'st o'er man thy dawning year,
Ah, sure all happy omens hail thy birth,
Sure whiter annals in thy train appear,
And purer glory cheers the gladden'd earth:
Like the young eagle, when his stedfast glance
Meets the full sun-beam in his upward flight,
So thou shalt with majestic step advance,
And fix thy dauntless eye on Liberty and Light.
poem by Helen Maria Williams
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The Negro Father's Lamentation Over the Body of His Infant Son
Thou'rt dead, my boy!—my son!—my only child!—
And yet I may not shed one tear for thee,
Nor hanging o'er thy bier in anguish wild,
Upbraid the hand that bore thee far from me:
I cannot wish that thou hadst lived to share
Thy father's fate—his woes—and his despair!
I loved thee—oh! I need not say how well!
Thou wert my all of hopes or bliss on earth!
Yet I will not repine that thou dost dwell
In happiness, with her who gave thee birth,
While I, like yon dark rock of naked stone,
Must bear the storms that round me beat, alone.
'T is well! Thou wilt not share those storms with me,
That is my all of comfort in this hour—
I weep not, though I would have died for thee!
Ay, more than died— that sacrifice were poor—
I would have spurn'd the hand that set me free,
And clasp'd my chain, and lived a slave, for thee.
My boy! my darling boy! farewell, farewell!
Thou ne'er shalt feel the pangs that rend me now,
For still my heart with agony will swell,
To think, that never more upon my brow,
Thy little lips with fondness shall be prest,
As when I oft have clasp'd thee to my breast.
Yes! fare thee well! thy fond caress no more
Shall soothe the tortured throbbing of my heart,
As it full oft has done, when tyrant power
Has trampled me to earth, and round me prest
The chain of slavery, till my swelling heart
Has madden'd into frenzy with the smart.
Yet even then, though thou couldst calm my soul,
With thy soft lisping voice and childish glee,
While clasping thee, sad thoughts would o'er me roll,
Of what must be thy future destiny,
Till my hot tears have wet thy little face,
And thou hast wonder'd at my wild embrace.
But thou art dead!—it ne'er will be thy fate
To tremble at a cruel tyrant's frowns—
To bend in servile toil, to feed his state,
To feel the lash, and hear him mock thy groans.
Then fare thee well!—thy father will not weep,
Or wish to wake thee from thy peaceful sleep.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Invincible Armada
She comes, she comes--the burden of the deeps!
Beneath her wails the universal sea!
With clanking chains and a new god, she sweeps,
And with a thousand thunders, unto thee!
The ocean-castles and the floating hosts--
Ne'er on their like looked the wild water!--Well
May man the monster name "Invincible."
O'er shuddering waves she gathers to thy coasts!
The horror that she spreads can claim
Just title to her haughty name.
The trembling Neptune quails
Under the silent and majestic forms;
The doom of worlds in those dark sails;--
Near and more near they sweep! and slumber all the storms!
Before thee, the array,
Blest island, empress of the sea!
The sea-born squadrons threaten thee,
And thy great heart, Britannia!
Woe to thy people, of their freedom proud--
She rests, a thunder heavy in its cloud!
Who, to thy hand the orb and sceptre gave,
That thou should'st be the sovereign of the nations?
To tyrant kings thou wert thyself the slave,
Till freedom dug from law its deep foundations;
The mighty Chart the citizens made kings,
And kings to citizens sublimely bowed!
And thou thyself, upon thy realm of water,
Hast thou not rendered millions up to slaughter,
When thy ships brought upon their sailing wings
The sceptre--and the shroud?
What should'st thou thank?--Blush, earth, to hear and feel
What should'st thou thank?--Thy genius and thy steel!
Behold the hidden and the giant fires!
Behold thy glory trembling to its fall!
Thy coming doom the round earth shall appal,
And all the hearts of freemen beat for thee,
And all free souls their fate in thine foresee--
Theirs is thy glory's fall!
One look below the Almighty gave,
Where streamed the lion-flags of thy proud foe;
And near and wider yawned the horrent grave.
"And who," saith He, "shall lay mine England low--
The stem that blooms with hero-deeds--
The rock when man from wrong a refuge needs--
The stronghold where the tyrant comes in vain?
Who shall bid England vanish from the main?
Ne'er be this only Eden freedom knew,
Man's stout defence from power, to fate consigned."
God the Almighty blew,
And the Armada went to every wind!
poem by Friedrich Schiller
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From Anacreon
I wish to tune my quivering lyre
To deed of fame and notes of fire;
To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus' sons advanced to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to love alone.
Fired with the hope of future fame,
I seek some nobler hero's name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due.
With glowing strings, the epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds.
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft desire.
Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms!
Adieu the clang of war's alarms!
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.
Gigantic daughter of the West,
Gigantic daughter of the West,
We drink to thee across the flood,
We know thee most, we love thee best,
For art thou not of British blood?
Should war's mad blast again be blown,
Permit not thou the tyrant powers
To fight thy mother here alone,
But let thy broadsides roar with ours.
Hands all round!
God the tyrant's cause confound!
To our great kinsmen of the West, my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round.
'O rise, our strong Atlantic sons,
When war against our freedom springs!
O speak to Europe through your guns!
They can be understood by kings.
You must not mix our Queen with those
That wish to keep their people fools;
Our freedom's foemen are her foes,
She comprehends the race she rules.
Hands all round!
God the tyrant's cause confound!
To our dear kinsmen of the West, my friends,
And the great cause of Freedom, round and round.'
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Henry Clay
Wail, winds of summer, as ye sweep
The arching skies;
O, let your echoes swell with deep,
Woe-piercing cries!
Old ocean, with a heavy surge,
Cold, black and drear,
Roll thou the solemn note of dirge
On Europe's ear!
Sweet stars, that calmly, purely bright,
Look down below,
O, pity with your eyes of light
A Nation's woe!
Thou source of day, that rollest on
Though tempests frown,
Thou mind'st us of another sun
That has gone down!
Gone down,--no more may mortal eye
Its face behold!
Gone down,--yet leaving on the sky
A tinge of gold!
Ah, yes! Columbia, pause to hear
The note of dread;
'Twill smite like iron on the ear;--
Our Clay is dead!
Our Clay; the patriot, statesman, sage,
The Nation's pride,
With giant minds of every age
Identified!
That form of manliness and strength
In Senate hall,
Is lying at a fearful length
Beneath the pall!
That voice of eloquence no more
Suspends the breath;
Its matchless power to charm is o'er--
'Tis hushed in death!
Thrice noble spirit! can we bow,
And kiss the rod?
With resignation yield thee now
Back to thy God?
And where, where shall we turn to find
Now thou 'rt at rest,
A soul so lofty, just and kind,
As warmed thy breast?
We bear thee, with a flood of tears,
Unto thy tomb;
There thou must sleep till rolling years
Have met their doom!
But thy bright fame and memory
Shall send a chime
From circling ages down to the
Remotest time!
O, may thy mantle fall on some
Of this our day,
And shed upon the years to come
A happy ray!
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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Banner Of Men Who Were Free
Flag of the great republic, banner of men who were free!
Carried aloft for freedom in many a bloody gorge;
Torn by the shot of tyrants in battle by land and sea,
The rallying hope of our fathers by Valley Forge.
But what is it but a rag, save it emblem the higher law?
Striped with the red of blood, flecked with the stars of war.
The ensign of might alone, to be held by the people in awe,
And cursed by savage chieftans in lands afar.
Little we owe to the England of this her lesser day,
But much to the field of Naseby, the spirit of Runnymede;
The bold adventurous Angles, who never shrank from the fray
When Liberty cried aloud in her hour of need.
Aloft on the dome of truth, in the city of brotherly love,
A sign to the world of hate, of Christ enthroned in the state,
Symbol of peace, like the olive leaf and the messenger dove,
Flew the flag of our fathers--the sign of a just debate!
But they dare to raise its standard on a field where the battle smoke,
Is rent with the groans of the slain, like the fallen of Lexington;
Where the eagles have traveled afar from the vultures of war which croak
O'er the bodies of those who died for the prize that it should have won?
Flag of a noble race, no longer our flag in truth,
Borne by a hostile hand in a cause of shame,
Give us the banner that flapped in the eyes of the nation's youth
And sent a thrill through the world of its faultless flame!
Yet, if its soul shall perish, take it for what it was --
For the shroud of those who worship the dead ideal;
Dead to lie with the dead beneath the recurrent grass,
No longer to grieve for the lost and no more to feel.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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The Exile's Choice
Since justice slumbers in the abysm,
Since the crime's crowned with despotism,
Since all most upright souls are smitten,
Since proudest souls are bowed for shame,
Since on the walls in lines of flame
My country's dark dishonour's written;
O grand Republic of our sires,
Pantheon filled with sacred fires,
In the free azure golden dome,
Temple with shades immortal thronged!
Since thus thy glory they have wronged,
With 'Empire' staining Freedom's home;
Since in my country each soul born
Is base; since there are laughed to scorn
The true, the pure, the great, the brave,
The indignant eyes of history,
Honour, law, right, and liberty,
And those, alas! within the grave:
Solitude, exile ! I love them !
Sorrow, be thou my diadem !
Poverty love I, -- for 't is pride !
My rugged home winds beat upon;
And even that awful Statue wan
Aye seated silent by my side.
I love the woe that proves me strong;
That shadow of fate which all ye throng,
O ye to whom high hearts aye bow, --
Faith, Virtue veiled, stern Dignity,
And thou, proud Exile, Liberty,
And, nobler yet, Devotion, thou!
I love this islet lonely, bold, --
Jersey, whereover England's old
Free banner doth the storm-blast brave;
Yon darkling ocean's ebb and flow,
Its vessels, each a wandering plough,
Whose mystic furrow is the wave.
I love thy gull, with snowy wing
In pearls to the wind blithe scattering,
O ocean vast, thy sunny spray;
Who darts beneath hugh billows gaping,
Soon from those monstrous throats escaping
As a soul from sorrow flits away!
I love the rock, -- how solemn, stern !
Thence hearkening aye the plaint eterne
On the wild air around me shed,
Ever the sullen night outpours,
Of waves that sob on sombre shores,
Of mothers mourning children dead!
poem by Victor Hugo
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Ulster
("Their webs shall not become garments, neither shall they
cover themselves with their works: their works are works
of inquity and the act of violence is in their hands." --
Isaiah lix. 6.)
The dark eleventh hour
Draws on and sees us sold
To every evil power
We fought against of old.
Rebellion, rapine hate
Oppression, wrong and greed
Are loosed to rule our fate,
By England's act and deed.
The Faith in which we stand,
The laws we made and guard,
Our honour, lives, and land
Are given for reward
To Murder done by night,
To Treason taught by day,
To folly, sloth, and spite,
And we are thrust away.
The blood our fathers spilt,
Our love, our toils, our pains,
Are counted us for guilt,
And only bind our chains.
Before an Empire's eyes
The traitor claims his price.
What need of further lies?
We are the sacrifice.
We asked no more than leave
To reap where we had sown,
Through good and ill to cleave
To our own flag and throne.
Now England's shot and steel
Beneath that flag must show
How loyal hearts should kneel
To England's oldest foe.
We know the war prepared
On every peaceful home,
We know the hells declared
For such as serve not Rome --
The terror, threats, and dread
In market, hearth, and field --
We know, when all is said,
We perish if we yield.
Believe, we dare not boast,
Believe, we do not fear --
We stand to pay the cost
In all that men hold dear.
What answer from the North?
One Law, one Land, one Throne.
If England drive us forth
We shall not fall alone!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Wrath Of Loyalty
OCTOBER! tho' thy rugged brow,
No vivid wreaths entwine;
Tho' not for thee the zephyr blow,
Tho' not for thee the blossom glow,
Or skies unclouded shine:
Tho' o'er thy dark and russet vest
No rainbow-colors play;
Tho' dim thine eye, tho' cold thy breast,
Yet be thou honor'd, be thou blest,
E'en more than youthful May!
No vernal suns illume thy day,
Fair star of joy! then brighter beam!
No forest-notes attend thy way,
Then strike the lyre, then make the lay,
To one inspiring theme!
Thy steps may blight the roseate plain,
Thy winds may chill the vale;
Yet, blooming 'midst thy shadowy train,
One radiant morn adorns thy reign;
Hail! dark October! hail!
Thine is the day, to Britons dear,
That bids fair Albion dry the tear;
With myrtles wreath her victor-spear,
And ev'ry grief disown.
Oh! let a people's voice prolong,
Proud Loyalty's triumphal song;
And faith, and truth, and valor, throng
Around Britannia's throne!
That still their monarch's heart may feel
How sweet affections grateful zeal
Still kindle with the patriot flame,
And 'glory in a Briton's name!'
O name! by deeds emblazon'd high,
O name! exalted to the sky,
O name! ennobled by the free!
Thou sacred sovereign! worthy thee!
Then wake, fairest Albion! awake to rejoice,
To the Pæan of rapture attuning thy voice,
And suspending thy war-song awhile!
Thou hast mourn'd for the great, thou hast wept o'er the brave,
Thou hast bent in despair o'er the Patriot's grave;
But now from thy bosom repressing the sigh,
Dispelling the tear from thy sun-darting eye,
Let ecstacy dawn in thy smile!
Yet the storm is around thee, the hurricane roars;
But Freedom and Loyalty dwell on thy shores,
Defending a Monarch ador'd!
They are true, they are dauntless, their bosoms are mail;
In vain may Ambition their fortress assail;
And bright is their streamer that plays on the breeze
And crimsons the wave, as it floats o'er the seas,
And keen is their fire-flashing sword!
Thy oak shall be firm till the tempest is past;
Majestic it rises, disdaining the blast,
It is proud, independent, supreme!
The nations around thee are cheerless in night,
And hope has extinguished her quivering light!
But the sun-beam of heaven on thy bosom shall rest,
And the planet of freedom be bright in the west,
Where its ray shall eternally stream!
Thou art like the fair vales, with exuberance crown'd,
Embosom'd in Appenines, cheerless around,
Where dwells Desolation alone!
Thou art like the proud laurel, still blooming and green,
When verdure and life have deserted the scene:
Thou art like a tall column, unmoulder'd by time,
That rises 'midst ruins, imperial, sublime,
So firm is thy rock-pillar'd throne!
Yet the storm is around thee, the hurricane roars;
But valor and loyalty dwell on thy shores,
And long may the guardians remain!
Firm, ardent, intrepid, oh! long may they stand,
The sabre of justice and truth in their hand:
Then the fire-flag of rapine may blaze thro' the air,
The torch of invasion, a comet, may glare,
And the war-tempest threaten—in vain!
O Monarch of Albion! ador'd by the free!
O temple of Liberty! queen of the sea!
What Briton but worships your name?
And where is the spirit that burns not with pride,
For a country to freedom, to glory allied?
And who would not kindle, exulting in death,
And triumph, and glow, in resigning his breath,
For a King, for a land, so exalted in fame?
Yes! ye bands of noble fire,
Dauntless on the plain!
Ye, who firm, in danger try'd,
Thought on England ere ye died,
Mingling blood with Tajo's tide;
Ye, whose memory shall inspire,
Many a bard and many a lyre,
Songs of Spain.
Heroes of Corunna's field!
Ye, who perish'd there,
Be your names for ever dear!
Yes! tho' dew'd with many a tear,
Yet triumphal was your bier!
Who like you the sword could wield?
Deathless trophies grace your shield,
Bright and fair!
Ye, who purchas'd, ere ye fell,
Talavera's crown!
Sainted spirits of the brave,
Lo! immortal o'er your grave,
Glory's amaranth shall wave!
Who your gallant deeds may tell?
Who may ring your thrilling knell?
High renown!
Faithful friends, who mourn sincere,
Where the brave repose;
Cold and low the mighty sleep.
Yes! ye well may sadly weep,
Well desponding vigils keep!
Yet shall kindling pride be near,
Yet shall triumph gild the tear
Love bestows!
By the patriot's holy flame,
Of transcendent rays;
Lyre! by thy sublimest chord,
Freedom! by thy shrine ador'd,
Honor! by thy radiant sword,
O'er the heroes lofty name,
Shall the noon-tide sun of fame
Deathless blaze!
Then let thy tear, O Albion! Shed
Its dew-balm o'er the valiant dead,
(A tear so sad, and yet so proud!)
But let the smile thine eye illume,
But let thy cheek the smile resume,
As the bright rainbow's vivid bloom
Streams o'er the parting cloud!
And form, thy sovereign's brow to shade,
A diadem that shall not fade,
A wreath, of glow eternal!
And there the British oak may shine,
And there let Mercy's palm entwine,
And Science there her bays combine,
That ever shall be vernal!
And come! ye forms of towering mien,
In graceful dignity serene;
Ye fearless guardians of the state,
Superior to the storms of fate!
And round the British throne attending,
Its arms, its fame, its cause defending;
There, firm in faith, united stand,
Invincible, immortal band!
Thou, Freedom! with the lightning-eye,
Be there! unfurl thy flag on high,
And all thy mounting soul impart!
And bid thy living flame expand,
Warm, bright, ethereal, o'er the land.—
Rise, Freedom! rise, with all thy fires,
When Britain's throne thine aid requires
Come! in thy proud, refulgent car,
Whose beam is Albion's guiding star;
And wave that sabre, dazzling bright,
Pure, hallow'd, spotless, as the light;
Whose ray for us a sun-beam glows,
Whose flash is lightning on our foes!
Be near, majestic maid! be near,
Hope in thine eye and justice on thy spear!
And thou, Fidelity! thou angel-form,
True in the combat, stedfast in the storm;
Whose truth shall beam, celestial, constant, pure,
And 'midst the fiery ordeal, smile secure;
Thou! with a cincture of Asbestos wove,
Thou queen of friendship, and thou guide of love!
Seraph, be there! impart thy sacred aid,
Be there! Britannia's glowing soul pervade!
Unite each heart by thy unchanging laws,
Firm, loyal, bold, in one transcendent cause!
Valor! thou, whose burning soul,
Kindles, mounts, beyond control;
Thou! whose ardor death defies;
Rushing to th' immortal prize;
Monarch of the conquering spear,
Dauntless on thy proud career;
Stern defiance on thy crest,
Melting mercy in thy breast;
Thou! with arms emblazon'd fair,
King of Danger!—be thou there!
Bid thy votaries round thee throng,
Wake thy boldest martial song!
Sing in proud, triumphant lay,
Agincourt's victorious day!
Sing the chief of Acre's fame,
Sing of Maida's brilliant name!
Sing Vimeira's high renown,
Talavera's recent crown!
Be thou there! With kindling eye,
Peril, toil, and foes defy;
Raise thy beamy falchion high,
Wave thy banner to the sky!
Sound thy clarion thro' the air,
Bid thy ardent sons be there!
Be their watch-word in the fight,
'Brunswick and Albion! Liberty and Right!!!'
With thee be Fortitude, whose awful mien,
Tow'rs in the blast, collected and serene!
Queen of the cliff! thy look sublimely braves
Fate's wint'ry blast, affliction's mountain-waves;
Thy lofty heart, secure in ten-fold mail,
Misfortune's arrows may in vain assail!
'Tis thine unchang'd, to meet, with proud disdain,
The spectre-forms of danger and of pain!
In glory's track undaunted to proceed,
To smile and suffer—to exult—and bleed!
Derive new spirit from the tempest rude,
And rise august—exalted—unsubdu'd!
And thou, fair Loyalty! be still enshrin'dIn every manly heart, each-patriot-mind:
Lo! in Religion's fane I see thee bend,
I hear thy prayer on fervor's wing ascend!
(While the warm tear-drop glitters on thy cheek,
While faith and hope thy melting eyes bespeak.)
'Sovereign of kings! whose high decree
Controls the storm, subdues the sea!
Who giv'st thy scourge Ambition, pow'r
To spread dismay, his destin'd hour;
To win his blood-stain'd, regal prize,
To reign, to ravage, to chastise;
Look down! on him in mercy smile,
The Monarch of the favor'd Isle!
Undimm'd, unclouded by regret,
May his mild star in glory set!
And peace and joy, with softest ray,
Illume his calm declining day!
Oh! long extend his hallow'd reign,
Oh! long his throne august, maintain!
And when, a mourner o'er his bier,
Sad Albion pours the filial tear;
Around may guardian-seraphs wait,
And waft him to a happier state;
Conduct him to a brighter throne,
A realm of peace, a fairer crown;
Enrich'd with many a spotless gem,
Virtue's illustrious diadem!'
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Mr. Clay’s Reception At Raleigh, April, 1844
Salute the august train! a scene so grand,
With every tuneful band;
The mighty brave,
His country bound to save,
Extends his aiding hand;
For joy his vot'ries hoop and stamp,
Excited by the blaze of pomp!
Let ev'ry eye
The scene descry,
The sons of freedom's land.
They look ten thousand stars! lamp tumbler blaze,
To give the Hero praise!
Immortal Clay,
The cause is to pourtray!
Your tuneful voices raise;
The lights of our Columbian sun,
Break from his patriotic throne;
Let all admire
The faithful sire,
The chief musician plays.
Ye bustling crowds give way, proclaims the drum,
And give the Patriot room;
The cannon's sound,
The blast of trumpets bound,
Be this our father's home;
Now let the best musician play,
A skillful tune for Henry Clay!
Let every ear
With transport hear!
The President is come.
Let sister states greet the Columbian feast,
With each admiring guest;
Thou art our choice!
Let ev'ry joyful voice,
Sound from the east to west;
Let haughty Albion's lion roar,
The eagle must prevail to soar;
And in lovely form,
Above the storm,
Erect her peaceful nest.
Beyond each proud empire she throws her eye!
Which lifted to the sky,
No thunders roll,
To agitate her soul,
Beneath her feet they fly!
Let skillful fingers sweep the lyre,
Strike ev'ry ear! set hearts on fire!
Let monarchs sleep
Beyond the deep,
And howling faction die.
Nor hence forget the scene applauding day,
When every heart was gay;
The universal swell
Rush'd from the loud town bell;
In awful, grand array,
We see them form the bright parade;
And hark, a gladdening march is play'd!
Along the street,
The theme is sweet,
For every voice is Clay.
To the Capitol the low and upland peers
Resort with princely fears,
And homage pay;
A loud huzza for Clay!
Falls on our ears;
Loud from his lips the thunders roll,
And fill with wonder every soul;
Round the sire of state
All concentrate,
And every mortal hears.
poem by George Moses Horton
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Ode for the Fourth of July
A glorious vision burst
On Europe's dazzled sight,
Upon that day when first
Columbia sprang to light; --
When our NEW WORLD, till then concealed,
In virgin beauty stood revealed.
But more sublime that day
When the young nation rose,
And cast her chains away,
And dared her tyrant foes:
Thrones quaked, and despots trembled then,
For bonds were rent and slaves were men.
The torch of Liberty,
Relighted on that day,
Streamed over land and sea
With brighter, holier ray.
Hail to our Country! hail to thee,
Auspicious day that saw her free!
Let the star-spangled flag
Upon the free air float;
Let hill, and vale, and crag,
Prolong the cannon's note:
"Live the Republic!" let this be
The watch-word of our liberty.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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England
ENGLAND, England, England,
Girdled by ocean and skies,
And the power of a world, and the heart of a race,
And a hope that never dies.
England, England, England,
Wherever a true heart beats,
Wherever the rivers of commerce flow,
Wherever the bugles of conquest blow,
Wherever the glories of liberty grow,
'Tis the name that the world repeats.
And ye, who dwell in the shadow
Of the century-sculptured piles,
Where sleep our century-honoured dead,
Whilst the great world thunders overhead,
And far out, miles on miles,
Beyond the smoke of the mighty town,
The blue Thames dimples and smiles;
Not yours alone the glory of old,
Of the splendid thousand years,
Of Britain's might and Britain's right
And the brunt of British spears.
Not yours alone, for the great world round,
Ready to dare and do,
Scot and Celt and Norman and Dane,
With the Northman's sinew and heart and brain,
And the Northman's courage for blessing or bane,
Are England's heroes too.
North and south and east and west,
Wherever their triumphs be,
Their glory goes home to the ocean-girt isle,
Where the heather blooms and the roses smile,
With the green isle under her lee.
And if ever the smoke of an alien gun
Should threaten her iron repose,
Shoulder to shoulder against the world,
Face to face with her foes,
Scot, and Celt and Saxon are one
Where the glory of England goes.
And we of the newer and vaster West,
Where the great war-banners are furled,
And commerce hurries her teeming hosts,
And the cannon are silent along our coasts,
Saxon and Gaul, Canadians claim
A part in the glory and pride and aim
Of the Empire that girdles the world.
England, England, England,
Wherever the daring heart
By Arctic floe or torrid strand
Thy heroes play their part;
For as long as conquest holds the earth,
Or commerce sweeps the sea,
By orient jungle or western plain
Will the Saxon spirit be:
And whatever the people that dwell beneath,
Or whatever the alien tongue,
Over the freedom and peace of the world
Is the flag of England flung,
Till the last great freedom is found,
And the last great truth be taught,
Till the last great deed be done,
And the last great battle is fought;
Till the last great fighter is slain in the last great fight,
And the war-wolf is dead in his den–
England, breeder of hope and valour and might,
Iron mother of men.
Yea, England, England, England,
Till honour and valour are dead,
Till the world's great cannons rust,
Till the world's great hopes are dust,
Till faith and freedom be fled,
Till wisdom and justice have passed
To sleep with those who sleep in the many-chambered vast,
Till glory and knowledge are charnelled dust in dust,
To all that is best in the world's unrest,
In heart and mind you are wed.
While out from the Indian jungle
To the far Canadian snows,
Over the East and over the West,
Over the worst and over the best,
The flag of the world to its winds unfurled,
The blood-red ensign blows.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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O Star Of France
O STAR of France!
The brightness of thy hope and strength and fame,
Like some proud ship that led the fleet so long,
Beseems to-day a wreck, driven by the gale--a mastless hulk;
And 'mid its teeming, madden'd, half-drown'd crowds,
Nor helm nor helmsman.
Dim, smitten star!
Orb not of France alone--pale symbol of my soul, its dearest hopes,
The struggle and the daring--rage divine for liberty,
Of aspirations toward the far ideal--enthusiast's dreams of
brotherhood, 10
Of terror to the tyrant and the priest.
Star crucified! by traitors sold!
Star panting o'er a land of death--heroic land!
Strange, passionate, mocking, frivolous land.
Miserable! yet for thy errors, vanities, sins, I will not now rebuke
thee;
Thy unexampled woes and pangs have quell'd them all,
And left thee sacred.
In that amid thy many faults, thou ever aimedest highly,
In that thou wouldst not really sell thyself, however great the
price,
In that thou surely wakedst weeping from thy drugg'd sleep, 20
In that alone, among thy sisters, thou, Giantess, didst rend the ones
that shamed thee,
In that thou couldst not, wouldst not, wear the usual chains,
This cross, thy livid face, thy pierced hands and feet,
The spear thrust in thy side.
O star! O ship of France, beat back and baffled long!
Bear up, O smitten orb! O ship, continue on!
Sure, as the ship of all, the Earth itself,
Product of deathly fire and turbulent chaos,
Forth from its spasms of fury and its poisons,
Issuing at last in perfect power and beauty, 30
Onward, beneath the sun, following its course,
So thee, O ship of France!
Finish'd the days, the clouds dispell'd,
The travail o'er, the long-sought extrication,
When lo! reborn, high o'er the European world,
(In gladness, answering thence, as face afar to face, reflecting
ours, Columbia,)
Again thy star, O France--fair, lustrous star,
In heavenly peace, clearer, more bright than ever,
Shall beam immortal.
poem by Walt Whitman
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To-- : From The French
Must thou go, my glorious Chief,
Sever'd from thy faithful few?
Who can tell thy warrior's grief,
Maddening o'er that long adieu?
Woman's love, and friendship's zeal,
Dear as both have been to me
What are they to all I feel,
With a soldier's faith for thee?
Idol of the soldier's soul!
First in fight, but mightiest now;
Many could a world control;
Thee alone no doom can bow.
By thy side for years I dared
Death; and envied those who fell,
When their dying shout was heard,
Blessing him they served so well.
Would that I were cold with those,
Since this hour I live to see;
When the doubts of coward foes
Scarce dare trust a man with thee,
Dreading each should set thee free!
Oh! although in dungeons pent,
All their chains were light to me,
Gazing on thy soul unbent.
Would the sycophants of him
Now so deaf to duty's prayer,
Were his borrow'd glories dim,
In his native darkness share?
Were that world this hour his own,
All thou calmly dost resign,
Could he purchase with that throne
Hearts like those which still are thine?
My chief, my king, my friend, adieu!
Never did I droop before;
Never to my sovereign sue,
As his foes I now implore:
All I ask is to divide
Every peril he must brave;
Sharing by the hero's side
His fall, his exile, and his grave.
London, 1802
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour;
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
poem by William Wordsworth
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The Bards, To The Soldiers Of Caractacus
VALIANT sons of freedom's land,
Ardent, firm, devoted band,
Rise, at honor's thrilling call:
Warriors, arm! shall Britain fall?
Rush, battle-steed,
Bleed, soldiers! bleed,
For Britain's throne, for glory's meed!
Heroes! to the combat fly,
Proud to struggle, blest to die;
Go! should death your efforts crown,
Mount the pinions of renown;
Go! tell our sires,
Their daring fires,
Glow in our lofty souls, till life expires!
Tell them, ne'er shall Britain yield,
Whilst a hand the sword can wield!
Tell them, we the strife maintain,
Tell them, we defy the chain!
In heart the same,
In patriot-flame
We emulate their brightest fame!
Shades of sainted chiefs! be near,
Frown on Albion's lifted spear!
Point the falchion, guide the car,
Flaming through the ranks of war!
Rise on the field,
With sword and shield,
To British eyes in forms of light reveal'd!
Spark of freedom, blaze on high!
Wilt thou quiver? shalt thou die?
Never, never! holy fire!
Mount, irradiate! beam, aspire!
Our foes consume,
Our swords illume,
And chase the dark horizon's gloom!
Shall the Roman arms invade
Mona's dark and hallow'd shade?
By the dread, mysterious wand,
Waving in the Druid's hand;
By ev'ry rite,
Of Mona's night,
Arm, warriors! arm, in sacred cause unite!
Honor! while thy bands disdain,
Slav'ry's dark, debasing chain;
Britain! while thy sons are free,
Dauntless, faithful, firm, for thee;
Mona! while at thy command,
Ardent, bold, sublime, they stand;
Proud foes in vain,
Prepare the chain,
For Albion unsubdu'd shall reign!
Lo! we see a flame divine
Blaze o'er Mona's awful shrine;
Lo! we hear a voice proclaim,
'Albion, thine, immortal fame!'
Arise, ye brave,
To bleed, to save,
Tho' proud in pomp, yon Roman eagles wave!
Cæsar, come! in ten-fold mail,
Will thine arms like ours avail?
Cæsar! let thy falchions blaze,
Will they dim fair Freedom's rays?
Cæsar! boast thy wide control,
Canst thou chain th' aspiring soul?
What steel can bind,
The soaring mind,
Free as the light, the wave, the wind?
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Recaptured Slave
Woe to thee, tyrant! woe!
Does that white brow of thine which shows so fair
And the rich tint thy cheek is wont to wear,
Make thee the ruler of my destiny?
Or does thy blood more freely flow,
Than that which pours so madly now,
Along my burning veins—that thou should'st be
The favourite of fortune—proud and free—
And I should be thy slave—thy vassal?—no!
'T is true, I was thy slave—the power was thine—
And thou hadst made me such—through lingering years,
One weary task of ceaseless toil was mine,
Of servitude and tears—
But didst thou think no kindly glow,
Could warm my heart to joy or woe?
Mistaken fool! I heard thee name a name,
That rush'd like fire along my burning breast,
And from that instant there awoke a flame,
That ne'er has been, and ne'er shall be suppress'd—
I heard the glorious name of liberty!
And from that hour I panted to be free!
I had breathed on—not lived—in recklessness,
And idle dull submission to my fate;
But then the very sunbeams seem'd to press
Upon my senses, with a bitter weight—
As though they spake upbraidingly,
That all around me should be free,
And I should be so vile—that I should bow,
And tremble at the gathering of thy brow!
I once had loved the gushing mirth
Of the young spring—when bee, flower, bird,
And every thing upon the earth,
Seem'd fraught with joy—but now, one word,
One only word, came o'er my brain,
Again, again, again,
As if 't were scorch'd in characters of flame
And that one word was Freedom! all things seem'd
To shape their voices only to that name—
The wild bird's joyous song—the fish that gleam'd
Through the bright flood—the murmur of the wave—
Nay, even the breath of heaven—methought seem'd whispering, Slave!
I fled, and ere another set of sun,
My galling chains were broken—I was free!
A new, a bright existence was begun—
And my soul knew and felt its potency.
The voice of eve seem'd sweeter to my ears,
And all things brighter to my eye—till tears
From my full heart gush'd up tumultuously—
Wife, children, friends, were all forgotten—all—
I only felt that I was free from thrall.
'T is over now—and I once more am thine—
But thinkest thou that, having known the bliss—
That though one moment only has been mine,
I will live on in servitude like this,
And wear the chains of bondage? tyrant, no!
My blood be on thy head! woe rest upon thee, woe!
Art thou my master! then come ask the wave,
To give thee back thy slave!
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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