 | Duganne's Poetical Works |  |
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THE NATIONS.
HARP of young Freedom! whose far-echoing wires
Thrill to the music of th' eternal choirs!
Swift, at thy summons, from their silent sleep
Within my heart, the long-pent thoughts will leap;
Mingling with mine own soul, each seraph-note
Bids it in holiest numbers upward float.
Now, in soft, silver accents, down the stream
Of Time—like music in a twilight dream—
My spirit hears an echo of the strain
That rose from hill and vale, from wood and plain,
When the young morning-stars together sang,
And with a joyful shout the laughing mountains rang.
Thrill to the music of th' eternal choirs!
Swift, at thy summons, from their silent sleep
Within my heart, the long-pent thoughts will leap;
Mingling with mine own soul, each seraph-note
Bids it in holiest numbers upward float.
Now, in soft, silver accents, down the stream
Of Time—like music in a twilight dream—
My spirit hears an echo of the strain
That rose from hill and vale, from wood and plain,
When the young morning-stars together sang,
And with a joyful shout the laughing mountains rang.
It breathes of Freedom! Freedom's joyous birth
Lent its first accents to the silent earth;
Taught the rude savage of his viewless soul,
And bade it from his lips in language roll;
Clothed with a mighty power the rushing throng
Of thoughts, until his heart gushed forth in song.
Mankind was nursed in liberty! the warm,
Young heart of Being drew its primal form
From Freedom's mould; the deep and noble draught
Of mountain-airs; the leaping rills, that laughed
In wantonness of joy; the eagle's flight,
Piercing, impetuous, through the walls of light;
The wild, deep forest-voice; the thunder's tone,—
Woke in man's emulous soul the music of his own.
Lent its first accents to the silent earth;
Taught the rude savage of his viewless soul,
And bade it from his lips in language roll;
Clothed with a mighty power the rushing throng
Of thoughts, until his heart gushed forth in song.
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Young heart of Being drew its primal form
From Freedom's mould; the deep and noble draught
Of mountain-airs; the leaping rills, that laughed
In wantonness of joy; the eagle's flight,
Piercing, impetuous, through the walls of light;
The wild, deep forest-voice; the thunder's tone,—
Woke in man's emulous soul the music of his own.
Nor hush'd the strain! around each mountain brow
Thunders and swells th' exulting anthem now;
Amid our vales the voiceful music thrills—
Across our plains—upon our templed hills;
O'er our wild waters, where the morning-beam
Wakes, 'mid the breakers' roar, the soaring eagle's scream.
Thunders and swells th' exulting anthem now;
Amid our vales the voiceful music thrills—
Across our plains—upon our templed hills;
O'er our wild waters, where the morning-beam
Wakes, 'mid the breakers' roar, the soaring eagle's scream.
Bird of our land! whose bright, undazzled gaze
Drinks in the fiery day-star's burning rays!
Now, as thy broadening pinions cleave the skies,
Hearest thou not the exulting anthem rise?
Lo! with his wild eye sweeping earth and wave,
Circling, he mounts the orient architrave;
Amid the heavens he marks thy glorious flags,
O Freedom! waving from the mountain-crags;
A million meteors, flashing in the light;
A million voices, swelling from each height;
A million hearts strained up; a nation's song
Arising on the breeze in accents strong;—
The voice of California's boundless woods;
The surging swell of Mississippi's floods;
Niagara's deep-toned chorus, and the roar
Of Ocean's hymn, along thy rocky shore,
From Florida's far reef to ice-bound Labrador!
Drinks in the fiery day-star's burning rays!
Now, as thy broadening pinions cleave the skies,
Hearest thou not the exulting anthem rise?
Lo! with his wild eye sweeping earth and wave,
Circling, he mounts the orient architrave;
Amid the heavens he marks thy glorious flags,
O Freedom! waving from the mountain-crags;
A million meteors, flashing in the light;
A million voices, swelling from each height;
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Arising on the breeze in accents strong;—
The voice of California's boundless woods;
The surging swell of Mississippi's floods;
Niagara's deep-toned chorus, and the roar
Of Ocean's hymn, along thy rocky shore,
From Florida's far reef to ice-bound Labrador!
'Tis thine own land, fair Freedom! where anew
Thy phœnix-form burst forth to mortal view!
From the new earth upspringing to the skies,
Here didst thou greet the world's awaking eyes!
On the wild mountain-breeze thy clarion rang,
And forth, to arms! an answering nation sprang.
Then, o'er th' Atlantic, at the mighty roll
Of Freedom's war-drums, shrank each tyrant's soul;
In their dark caves the despots of the earth
Heard the deep shout that told of Freedom's birth!
Trembling they heard it, and their golden thrones
Shook, at the echoings of those deep war-tones;
Slaves heard it, too; beneath his iron thrall,
Beat the stirred bosom of the wondering Gaul;
Italia's steel, within the pale moonlight,
Glittered, impatient, for th' avenging fight;
Hispania's serfs forgot their servile chain,
And from their panting souls swelled forth an answering strain!
Thy phœnix-form burst forth to mortal view!
From the new earth upspringing to the skies,
Here didst thou greet the world's awaking eyes!
On the wild mountain-breeze thy clarion rang,
And forth, to arms! an answering nation sprang.
Then, o'er th' Atlantic, at the mighty roll
Of Freedom's war-drums, shrank each tyrant's soul;
In their dark caves the despots of the earth
Heard the deep shout that told of Freedom's birth!
Trembling they heard it, and their golden thrones
Shook, at the echoings of those deep war-tones;
Slaves heard it, too; beneath his iron thrall,
Beat the stirred bosom of the wondering Gaul;
Italia's steel, within the pale moonlight,
Glittered, impatient, for th' avenging fight;
Hispania's serfs forgot their servile chain,
And from their panting souls swelled forth an answering strain!
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Leave we the freedom-tree, to mark, awhile,
Where the dark upas-growth of power and guile
Poisons the fountains of the olden lands,
And twines its leaves in soul-enchaining bands.
The Nations are around me! in their might,
Monarch and priest sweep on before my sight;—
Sweep on in crimson glory, o'er the wrecks
Of truth—o'er gasping hearts and bending necks!
Where the dark upas-growth of power and guile
Poisons the fountains of the olden lands,
And twines its leaves in soul-enchaining bands.
The Nations are around me! in their might,
Monarch and priest sweep on before my sight;—
Sweep on in crimson glory, o'er the wrecks
Of truth—o'er gasping hearts and bending necks!
I may not now, with dulcet Pleasure's touch,
Strike the soft harp with tenderness o'ermuch;
Not now the strains of love shall wake its strings,
Nor song of dove-eyed Peace around it flings;
No whispered Fancy in sweet music floats:
Stern, truthful Clio strikes the jarring notes;—
Across the crashing octave of all time—
The world's sweet Infancy, its Youth, its Prime!
Strike the soft harp with tenderness o'ermuch;
Not now the strains of love shall wake its strings,
Nor song of dove-eyed Peace around it flings;
No whispered Fancy in sweet music floats:
Stern, truthful Clio strikes the jarring notes;—
Across the crashing octave of all time—
The world's sweet Infancy, its Youth, its Prime!
Far in the Vista sinks my soul!—Back! back!
Where the invisible ages leave no track!
Back, where from Babel's gates outpoured her crowds;
Back, where old Baalbek's temples smote the clouds;
Back, to bright Nineveh—to Tadmor's walls,
The shrines of Thebes, and Memphis' swarming halls.
Where the invisible ages leave no track!
Back, where from Babel's gates outpoured her crowds;
Back, where old Baalbek's temples smote the clouds;
Back, to bright Nineveh—to Tadmor's walls,
The shrines of Thebes, and Memphis' swarming halls.
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Forth to the day once more—the Present's day!
Phantom-like flit the shrines and thrones away;
Behold! upon the desert's burning heaps,
Where round yon fallen tower the adder creeps;
Behold! amid that temple's ruined pride—
O'er the crushed altar—where the jackals glide;
Mark ye where once a woman's daring hand
Swept the invading despot from her land,—
There the green lizard creeps, the scorpion crawls,
Around the levelled shrines, the shivered walls;
Behold! where Tyoth's gaze explored the skies,
The wandering nomad's humble tents arise;
And where the sunbeam Memnon's strain awoke
The hemlock's deadly roots a desert fountain choke.
Phantom-like flit the shrines and thrones away;
Behold! upon the desert's burning heaps,
Where round yon fallen tower the adder creeps;
Behold! amid that temple's ruined pride—
O'er the crushed altar—where the jackals glide;
Mark ye where once a woman's daring hand
Swept the invading despot from her land,—
There the green lizard creeps, the scorpion crawls,
Around the levelled shrines, the shivered walls;
Behold! where Tyoth's gaze explored the skies,
The wandering nomad's humble tents arise;
And where the sunbeam Memnon's strain awoke
The hemlock's deadly roots a desert fountain choke.
And this the lesson—that the might of all
That man from vast Creation's fields can call;—
All that he proudly rears—must pass away!
The monarch of Creation is Decay!
That man from vast Creation's fields can call;—
All that he proudly rears—must pass away!
The monarch of Creation is Decay!
Egypt! the Womb and Tomb of mightiest lore!
Egypt! whose giant guardians, gazing o'er
Thy desert plains, bring back the buried Past,
With all its awful shadows round it cast!—
Say, did thy Pharaohs from their cerements leap,
When Gaul's deep thunder broke upon their sleep?
Thro' the thick-gathered mists of withered years,
Saw they the Corsican's embattled spears?
Ah! vain were thunders of united zones—
Vain the world-echoing requiem of thrones—
To burst the sleep of death that over all
Thy Memory and thy Might hangs like a funeral pall!
Egypt! whose giant guardians, gazing o'er
Thy desert plains, bring back the buried Past,
With all its awful shadows round it cast!—
Say, did thy Pharaohs from their cerements leap,
When Gaul's deep thunder broke upon their sleep?
Thro' the thick-gathered mists of withered years,
Saw they the Corsican's embattled spears?
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Vain the world-echoing requiem of thrones—
To burst the sleep of death that over all
Thy Memory and thy Might hangs like a funeral pall!
Rome! thou vast shade of what was once a world,
Down from thy mighty throne in madness hurled!—
Still doth thy giant heart convulsive start,
Like some huge corpse beneath the surgeon's art;
Still, 'mid the mould of his self-hollowed grave,
Throbs, and leaps up, and pants, th' awaking slave!—
And, like the fiery mountain's deep-drawn breath,
Ere, with a mighty heave, it vomits death,—
In thy swelled soul have sunk thy woes and shames;—
Shall they not burst, O Rome! burst forth in Freedom's flames?
Down from thy mighty throne in madness hurled!—
Still doth thy giant heart convulsive start,
Like some huge corpse beneath the surgeon's art;
Still, 'mid the mould of his self-hollowed grave,
Throbs, and leaps up, and pants, th' awaking slave!—
And, like the fiery mountain's deep-drawn breath,
Ere, with a mighty heave, it vomits death,—
In thy swelled soul have sunk thy woes and shames;—
Shall they not burst, O Rome! burst forth in Freedom's flames?
Ay! like a lava torrent—o'er the fanes
And palaces of those who forged thy chains!
Ay! like a lava-torrent, sweeping down
Cross, crook, and mitre,—sceptre, throne, and crown!—
Till, from the burning fields, to greet the skies,
Freedom's new Coliseum o'er buried thrones shall rise!
Where is Germania?—from their slumbers deep,
Will not thy buried sires start forth to weep?
Liveth the spirit of old Herrmann now,
When the stiff German necks in bondage bow?—
Bondage! a deadlier bondage, than the yoke
Of Roman power thy bold Arminius broke.
Not now with iron chains thy tyrants bind:
Their manacles enwreath th' awaking mind;
Their yoke is on the soul, to bind it down,
Till its dull gaze is level with a crown.
In thy deep heart, O Germany! whose life
With god-like aspirations still is rife,—
Whose heaven-encircling vision breaks the clouds
Of Time, and dazzles Ages from their shrouds;
In thy deep heart, O, lives there not a gleam,
Of German light, in radiance now to beam?—
Then, from thy long-bowed soul the fetters shake!
From thy long sleep of death indignant wake!
Cast on thine Herrmann's shield of Truth and Right!
Shout Winkelried's loud summons to the fight!—
“Make way for Liberty!” and burst the slavish night!
And palaces of those who forged thy chains!
Ay! like a lava-torrent, sweeping down
Cross, crook, and mitre,—sceptre, throne, and crown!—
Till, from the burning fields, to greet the skies,
Freedom's new Coliseum o'er buried thrones shall rise!
366
Will not thy buried sires start forth to weep?
Liveth the spirit of old Herrmann now,
When the stiff German necks in bondage bow?—
Bondage! a deadlier bondage, than the yoke
Of Roman power thy bold Arminius broke.
Not now with iron chains thy tyrants bind:
Their manacles enwreath th' awaking mind;
Their yoke is on the soul, to bind it down,
Till its dull gaze is level with a crown.
In thy deep heart, O Germany! whose life
With god-like aspirations still is rife,—
Whose heaven-encircling vision breaks the clouds
Of Time, and dazzles Ages from their shrouds;
In thy deep heart, O, lives there not a gleam,
Of German light, in radiance now to beam?—
Then, from thy long-bowed soul the fetters shake!
From thy long sleep of death indignant wake!
Cast on thine Herrmann's shield of Truth and Right!
Shout Winkelried's loud summons to the fight!—
“Make way for Liberty!” and burst the slavish night!
Spain! must thy wrongs through all thy being last?
Spain! are thy golden days forever passed?
Shall not a Cid spring up, to lead thee on,
Till chains are snapped and Freedom's peace is won?
Shall not some new Pelayo's war-cry swell?
Some new Alphonso rise,
thy foes to quell?
Not till the last crowned robber bites the dust;
Not till is stemmed the tide of priestly lust;
Not till the cowl and ermine crown the pile
Of Freedom's altar-offering,—shall her smile
Shine forth on thee, Hispania! not till then,
The knife shall seek its sheath, and peace walk forth again!
Spain! are thy golden days forever passed?
Shall not a Cid spring up, to lead thee on,
Till chains are snapped and Freedom's peace is won?
Shall not some new Pelayo's war-cry swell?
On the defeat of Roderick, the last Gothic king of Spain, by Tarik the Saracen, and subsequent overrunning of that country by the Moors, a small but gallant band of patriots, under the leadership of Pelagius, or Pelayo, held out against the invaders, maintaining themselves in valleys and caverns, and eventually founding the realm of Asturias.
Some new Alphonso rise,
Alphonso the Chaste, a descendant of Pelayo, was the first Christian ruler in Northern Spain who refused to pay tribute to the Moors, after it had been exacted for more than a century. Under his leadership, the Spaniards drove the Saracens from Asturias and Navarre, and compelled them to limit their dominion to Granada and Cordova, whence they were afterwards finally expelled by Ferdinand and Isabella.
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Not till is stemmed the tide of priestly lust;
Not till the cowl and ermine crown the pile
Of Freedom's altar-offering,—shall her smile
Shine forth on thee, Hispania! not till then,
The knife shall seek its sheath, and peace walk forth again!
England! proud despot of the chainless sea—
Long have the palsied nations bent to thee;
England! whose banners on each ocean float;
Whose language, from the cannon's brazen throat
Around the wide earth crashing, speaks thy might,
And drowns the pleading voice of ruth and right,—
Lo! thou art highest in the mount of fame!
Nations have paled and perished at thy name!
Still on thy temples beams the fadeless crown
Of thy unperishing and old renown;
Still on thy proud escutcheon brightly beam
The warrior's boast, the patriot's glowing theme:
Forth from their glorious graves, a mighty throng,
Pour thy old dauntless chivalry along;—
Up, from the burning plains of Palestine;
Up, from the borders of the rushing Rhine;
Up, from the banks of Guadalquivir's tide,
From Gaul's broad battle-graves, and from the ocean wide.
Long have the palsied nations bent to thee;
England! whose banners on each ocean float;
Whose language, from the cannon's brazen throat
Around the wide earth crashing, speaks thy might,
And drowns the pleading voice of ruth and right,—
Lo! thou art highest in the mount of fame!
Nations have paled and perished at thy name!
Still on thy temples beams the fadeless crown
Of thy unperishing and old renown;
Still on thy proud escutcheon brightly beam
The warrior's boast, the patriot's glowing theme:
Forth from their glorious graves, a mighty throng,
Pour thy old dauntless chivalry along;—
Up, from the burning plains of Palestine;
Up, from the borders of the rushing Rhine;
Up, from the banks of Guadalquivir's tide,
From Gaul's broad battle-graves, and from the ocean wide.
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A grand and proud array! the iron race
Who gave thee 'mid the mightiest a place.
Yet vain their glorious and far-spreading fame;
Vain is the memory of each valiant name;
Vain are thy trophies and thy laurel-wreath,
To shield thee, England! from dishonor's death!
The memory of thy tyrant lust obscures
The brightness of a thousand Agincourts;
Thy grasping tyranny, thy broken trust,
Will shroud a thousand Cressys in the dust!
Ireland's fire-blasted fields, and ruined hearths,
Shall dim the lustre of thy triumph-paths;
India's crushed millions, in a wailing cry,
From many a crimson death-field rising high,
Shall drown the trumpet-note that Victory blew
O'er Nile's ensanguined wave, or deathful Waterloo.
Who gave thee 'mid the mightiest a place.
Yet vain their glorious and far-spreading fame;
Vain is the memory of each valiant name;
Vain are thy trophies and thy laurel-wreath,
To shield thee, England! from dishonor's death!
The memory of thy tyrant lust obscures
The brightness of a thousand Agincourts;
Thy grasping tyranny, thy broken trust,
Will shroud a thousand Cressys in the dust!
Ireland's fire-blasted fields, and ruined hearths,
Shall dim the lustre of thy triumph-paths;
India's crushed millions, in a wailing cry,
From many a crimson death-field rising high,
Shall drown the trumpet-note that Victory blew
O'er Nile's ensanguined wave, or deathful Waterloo.
Poland! thou art not fall'n! thy tyrants' wrong,
Heaped round thee, shall become an ægis strong,
To shelter thee when beats the storm once more;
Poland! thine iron ordeal shall be o'er.
By the unnumbered death-cries that arose
Where the bright Vistula in stillness flows!
By all the woes of Warsaw's martyr'd band,
Who last for Freedom raised the battle-brand!
By glorious Sobieski's deathless name!
And by those dear and patriot souls who came
To our new freedom-feast—Kosciusko brave,
And HE who found with freedom but a grave!
By these, and by the uncounted pray'rs that rise,
Unceasingly, to chill Siberia's skies!—
Poland shall live—shall rise! O Mighty God!
Hear thou those soul-sent pray'rs, and break the oppressor's rod!
Heaped round thee, shall become an ægis strong,
To shelter thee when beats the storm once more;
Poland! thine iron ordeal shall be o'er.
By the unnumbered death-cries that arose
Where the bright Vistula in stillness flows!
By all the woes of Warsaw's martyr'd band,
Who last for Freedom raised the battle-brand!
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And by those dear and patriot souls who came
To our new freedom-feast—Kosciusko brave,
And HE who found with freedom but a grave!
By these, and by the uncounted pray'rs that rise,
Unceasingly, to chill Siberia's skies!—
Poland shall live—shall rise! O Mighty God!
Hear thou those soul-sent pray'rs, and break the oppressor's rod!
A dark and ominous cloud is in the North;
From Russia's wastes a prophet-voice goes forth!—
Goes forth to warn old Europe—but in vain!
Yet what has been may, haply, be again!
Time was, when o'er the necks of nations tranc'd
In slavery, the Assyrian's charger pranc'd;
Time was, when he who overran one world
Wept that his conquering banner must be furled;
Time was, when on the huge old Alpine rock
The Carthaginian's thunders spent their shock;
Time was, when Roma's matricidal son
Leaped madly o'er his country's Rubicon;—
And where is old Assyria? where is Greece?
Say, did the sun of Carthage set in peace?
Where is old Rome? O Nations! know ye this!—
They lived—they rose—they fell! Time was—Time is!
From Russia's wastes a prophet-voice goes forth!—
Goes forth to warn old Europe—but in vain!
Yet what has been may, haply, be again!
Time was, when o'er the necks of nations tranc'd
In slavery, the Assyrian's charger pranc'd;
Time was, when he who overran one world
Wept that his conquering banner must be furled;
Time was, when on the huge old Alpine rock
The Carthaginian's thunders spent their shock;
Time was, when Roma's matricidal son
Leaped madly o'er his country's Rubicon;—
And where is old Assyria? where is Greece?
Say, did the sun of Carthage set in peace?
Where is old Rome? O Nations! know ye this!—
They lived—they rose—they fell! Time was—Time is!
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And such may be thy fate, O Europe! thus,
When swarming from his deserts pours the Russ,
Thine ears may hear, too late, the iron tread
Of Asia's hordes above thy countless dead!
Ye saw when Gaul's defenceless capital
Heard on her parapet the Ukraine-call;
Ye saw when, o'er the ravaged fields of France,
Gleamed in the reddened sky the Cossack's lance,—
And ye may mark, from Moscow's crimson fire,
A flame enwreath your homes in one red funeral-pyre!
When swarming from his deserts pours the Russ,
Thine ears may hear, too late, the iron tread
Of Asia's hordes above thy countless dead!
Ye saw when Gaul's defenceless capital
Heard on her parapet the Ukraine-call;
Ye saw when, o'er the ravaged fields of France,
Gleamed in the reddened sky the Cossack's lance,—
And ye may mark, from Moscow's crimson fire,
A flame enwreath your homes in one red funeral-pyre!
Back to our Freedom-home!—our souls again
Join in a happy nation's triumph-strain!
Our throbbing hearts, in cadence with the sound
Of trump, and drum, and cannon booming round!—
Our soaring spirits, on the golden air,
Springing to plant a star-lit banner there!
Joining the anthem, gush our swelling-hearts,—
Freedom her glorious life to every soul imparts!
Join in a happy nation's triumph-strain!
Our throbbing hearts, in cadence with the sound
Of trump, and drum, and cannon booming round!—
Our soaring spirits, on the golden air,
Springing to plant a star-lit banner there!
Joining the anthem, gush our swelling-hearts,—
Freedom her glorious life to every soul imparts!
O God! what mockery is this to him,
Whose eyes with death's approaching vail are dim—
The restless sufferer, on whose burning brain
Crashes the torture of each martial strain;—
The fettered wretch, within the dungeon gloom,
Hears the glad echo round his living tomb—
Hears the shrill trump arising wild and high,
And clanks his chains, in hopeless agony!
The Slave, too, hears it—'neath a cloudless sky,
He gazes round—bright banners meet his eye!
He listens—clarion notes, upon the air,
Speak to his bosom—Liberty is there!
Shout, shout aloud! 't is Freedom's birth-day!—shout!
What! mute? the lash shall bring thy plaudits out!
The lash shall make thee hail our Freedom's name—
Freedom and Justice twined—Columbia's lasting fame.
Whose eyes with death's approaching vail are dim—
The restless sufferer, on whose burning brain
Crashes the torture of each martial strain;—
The fettered wretch, within the dungeon gloom,
Hears the glad echo round his living tomb—
Hears the shrill trump arising wild and high,
And clanks his chains, in hopeless agony!
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He gazes round—bright banners meet his eye!
He listens—clarion notes, upon the air,
Speak to his bosom—Liberty is there!
Shout, shout aloud! 't is Freedom's birth-day!—shout!
What! mute? the lash shall bring thy plaudits out!
The lash shall make thee hail our Freedom's name—
Freedom and Justice twined—Columbia's lasting fame.
The first, faint streaks of Morning's mellowed light
Are checkering the sky—the shades of Night
Are fading into sunlight—hill and vale
In laughing loveliness the day-star hail;—
A stately form has reached yon mountain-steep,
Around whose base the circling waters leap;
His arm is raised to heaven—his bright black eye
Fixed sorrowingly upon the changing sky;—
And now it falls—across the wide-spread plain,
The fields all bending with their shining grain,
The waving woods that rock in living green,
The streams that leap and flash in silvery sheen,—
In one wide, sweeping glance, his spirit views the scene.
Are checkering the sky—the shades of Night
Are fading into sunlight—hill and vale
In laughing loveliness the day-star hail;—
A stately form has reached yon mountain-steep,
Around whose base the circling waters leap;
His arm is raised to heaven—his bright black eye
Fixed sorrowingly upon the changing sky;—
And now it falls—across the wide-spread plain,
The fields all bending with their shining grain,
The waving woods that rock in living green,
The streams that leap and flash in silvery sheen,—
In one wide, sweeping glance, his spirit views the scene.
Hark! from the valleys;—'tis the signal-gun—
Freedom, rejoicing, hails her natal sun;
Bright swords are flashing back the morning-beam;
Star-woven banners from each hill-top stream.
Child of a murdered race! swells now thy soul,
Responsive to the strains that round thee roll?
Leapeth thy heart when Freedom's shouts arise—
When Freedom's meteor banners kiss the skies?
Shout forth thy gladness, red man! let thy voice
With Freedom's accents blend! with Freedom's sons rejoice!
Freedom, rejoicing, hails her natal sun;
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Star-woven banners from each hill-top stream.
Child of a murdered race! swells now thy soul,
Responsive to the strains that round thee roll?
Leapeth thy heart when Freedom's shouts arise—
When Freedom's meteor banners kiss the skies?
Shout forth thy gladness, red man! let thy voice
With Freedom's accents blend! with Freedom's sons rejoice!
His voice is raised—above the trumpet-tone,
The drum-beat, and the cannon-peal;—alone,
Above the shout of Freedom's joy that tells,
In its own strength upon the breeze it swells.
But not with joy! a curse—a gasping prayer
For swift and sure revenge! With bosom bare,
With lifted eyes and arms, behold him stand—
The avenging curse invoking on our land!
A curse upon the white man's tyrant race—
A curse upon his home and dwelling-place—
A curse upon his children and his land,—
War, pestilence, and blight—the battle and the brand!
The drum-beat, and the cannon-peal;—alone,
Above the shout of Freedom's joy that tells,
In its own strength upon the breeze it swells.
But not with joy! a curse—a gasping prayer
For swift and sure revenge! With bosom bare,
With lifted eyes and arms, behold him stand—
The avenging curse invoking on our land!
A curse upon the white man's tyrant race—
A curse upon his home and dwelling-place—
A curse upon his children and his land,—
War, pestilence, and blight—the battle and the brand!
That curse is ringing still! and now, again,
Comes the low murmur of the Slave's “Amen!”
Will ye not hear it—ye, whose voices guide
Our counsels and our country—ere the tide
Of ruin sweep ye from your pitch of pride?
When the Old World is riven, and despot-sway
O'er the rent states shall hold its crushing way;
When the dark Russian's vast and pall-like power
O'er Europe's prostrate monarchies shall lower;
When Asia's hordes upon the tide of war,
Shall bear the fetters of the conquering Czar;—
What hope may cheer the bosoms of the free?
Where shall the Nations look, Columbia! but to THEE?
Comes the low murmur of the Slave's “Amen!”
Will ye not hear it—ye, whose voices guide
Our counsels and our country—ere the tide
Of ruin sweep ye from your pitch of pride?
373
O'er the rent states shall hold its crushing way;
When the dark Russian's vast and pall-like power
O'er Europe's prostrate monarchies shall lower;
When Asia's hordes upon the tide of war,
Shall bear the fetters of the conquering Czar;—
What hope may cheer the bosoms of the free?
Where shall the Nations look, Columbia! but to THEE?
Here—in the mighty West, my country—here,
Freedom to her omnipotent God may rear
Her proudest temple! Here, in grandeur nurs'd,
Till on the world His word shall bid her burst,
Let Freedom's soul abide! And when the cloud
Of tyrant-power the Nations shall enshroud;
And when the measure of their servile woes
The cup of Retribution overflows;—
Forth on the world once more her form shall beam,
To change the tide of grief to love's illumined stream!
Freedom to her omnipotent God may rear
Her proudest temple! Here, in grandeur nurs'd,
Till on the world His word shall bid her burst,
Let Freedom's soul abide! And when the cloud
Of tyrant-power the Nations shall enshroud;
And when the measure of their servile woes
The cup of Retribution overflows;—
Forth on the world once more her form shall beam,
To change the tide of grief to love's illumined stream!
And ye around me, whom no despot binds—
Rich in the freedom of your youthful minds—
The time may come when your firm hearts shall bar
The dreadful progress of the tyrant's car—
The tyrant Ignorance, whose iron hand
The free and generous may alone withstand;
The time may come when yonder column'd hill
In Memory's heart alone a place shall fill;
The time will come when ye, who hail this day,
Even like its sunlight shall have passed away;
But, onward to the fight—the glorious strife!
Buckle your armor for the field of Life!
Let your awakening souls, sustained in God,
Cast the enlightening spirit-food abroad;
Quaff the rich draught from Learning's mighty fount,
And on the wings of Knowledge heavenward mount!
Then shall the trumpet of the glorious West
Startle the world from slavery's sluggish rest;
And, like old Jericho, at the mighty sound,
The conquered towers of Crime shall crumble to the ground!
Rich in the freedom of your youthful minds—
The time may come when your firm hearts shall bar
The dreadful progress of the tyrant's car—
The tyrant Ignorance, whose iron hand
The free and generous may alone withstand;
374
In Memory's heart alone a place shall fill;
The time will come when ye, who hail this day,
Even like its sunlight shall have passed away;
But, onward to the fight—the glorious strife!
Buckle your armor for the field of Life!
Let your awakening souls, sustained in God,
Cast the enlightening spirit-food abroad;
Quaff the rich draught from Learning's mighty fount,
And on the wings of Knowledge heavenward mount!
Then shall the trumpet of the glorious West
Startle the world from slavery's sluggish rest;
And, like old Jericho, at the mighty sound,
The conquered towers of Crime shall crumble to the ground!
| Duganne's Poetical Works | |