 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
165
INDEPENDENCE ODE.
When our fathers in vain sought redress from the throne,
And the Tyrant grew mad in his thirst for dominion—
Earth shook, while the bugle of conflict was blown,
And our Eagle unfolded his newly-fledged pinion:
Men with hair thin and white,
Bared their arms for the fight,
And the lad of sixteen made the dull weapon bright,
While gilding the battle-storm, rolling in wrath,
The sunlight of freedom streamed full on their path.
And the Tyrant grew mad in his thirst for dominion—
Earth shook, while the bugle of conflict was blown,
And our Eagle unfolded his newly-fledged pinion:
Men with hair thin and white,
Bared their arms for the fight,
And the lad of sixteen made the dull weapon bright,
While gilding the battle-storm, rolling in wrath,
The sunlight of freedom streamed full on their path.
Fierce bands of Oppression were marshalled in vain,
Though the Cross of St. George fluttered haughtily o'er them,
Unmoved as the rock, beating backward the main,
Frowned the phalanx of Liberty darkly before them:
With the dying and dead
Was the battle-field spread,
And the rain of destruction fell reeking and red;
But Britain soon learned that she could not prevail,
For the war-shout of Washington rang on the gale.
Though the Cross of St. George fluttered haughtily o'er them,
Unmoved as the rock, beating backward the main,
Frowned the phalanx of Liberty darkly before them:
With the dying and dead
Was the battle-field spread,
And the rain of destruction fell reeking and red;
But Britain soon learned that she could not prevail,
For the war-shout of Washington rang on the gale.
In earth, by their prowess and fortitude won,
From the grasp of Invasion, our grandsires are sleeping,
And proud are the columns that gleam in the sun,
Where moss o'er each sepulchre slowly is creeping;
But the triumphs of Art
Can no glory impart,
When the names of the mighty are traced on the heart,
And deeds that have hallowed hill, valley, and shore,
Are linked to the turf that they trod, evermore.
From the grasp of Invasion, our grandsires are sleeping,
And proud are the columns that gleam in the sun,
Where moss o'er each sepulchre slowly is creeping;
But the triumphs of Art
Can no glory impart,
When the names of the mighty are traced on the heart,
And deeds that have hallowed hill, valley, and shore,
Are linked to the turf that they trod, evermore.
166
The valor that burned in the breasts of our sires
Is living in hearts of the free-born and daring,
Who nobly, while poets are stringing their lyres,
Our flag to the Mexican stronghold are bearing:
Thronging hosts in the fray,
Veiled the lustre of day
With the smoke-cloud of guns, but their march could not stay,
And earth feels the tread of their conquering feet,
While the heart of an Empire is ceasing to beat.
Is living in hearts of the free-born and daring,
Who nobly, while poets are stringing their lyres,
Our flag to the Mexican stronghold are bearing:
Thronging hosts in the fray,
Veiled the lustre of day
With the smoke-cloud of guns, but their march could not stay,
And earth feels the tread of their conquering feet,
While the heart of an Empire is ceasing to beat.
Proud heirs of a legacy bought by the sword,
May the South and the North ever live in communion;
May the vials of doom on the traitor be poured,
Whose lip ever mutters that foul word—“Disunion”—
Guard the Home of your birth
Where the wretched of earth,
When scourged by the Despot, find altar and hearth,
And the splendor of Rome will be dim to the fame
That our Land, in the Congress of Nations, will claim.
May the South and the North ever live in communion;
May the vials of doom on the traitor be poured,
Whose lip ever mutters that foul word—“Disunion”—
Guard the Home of your birth
Where the wretched of earth,
When scourged by the Despot, find altar and hearth,
And the splendor of Rome will be dim to the fame
That our Land, in the Congress of Nations, will claim.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |