 | Duganne's Poetical Works |  |
THE SWORD OF WASHINGTON,
AND FRANKLIN'S STAFF.
NOT as a battle-gift,
We grasp our chieftain's sword,—
Not in the combat to uplift,
To light the battle's stormy rift,
Where Freedom's blood is poured.
We hail thee, O thou warrior-blade!
Of brighter days the sign—
Like that which armed the Gallic maid,
Whose hand the rushing foeman stayed,
With courage all divine.
We grasp our chieftain's sword,—
Not in the combat to uplift,
To light the battle's stormy rift,
Where Freedom's blood is poured.
We hail thee, O thou warrior-blade!
Of brighter days the sign—
Like that which armed the Gallic maid,
Whose hand the rushing foeman stayed,
With courage all divine.
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Sword of the mighty Dead,
Thy light shall guard our land
And, even as the meteor dread,
That flashes round the Cherub's head,
Shall blast each foeman's hand.
Sword! thou art Freedom's chosen guest,
In her own festal hall;
At her right hand, in triumph, rest;
Thy point at each dark traitor's breast,
Who would his land enthrall.
Thy light shall guard our land
And, even as the meteor dread,
That flashes round the Cherub's head,
Shall blast each foeman's hand.
Sword! thou art Freedom's chosen guest,
In her own festal hall;
At her right hand, in triumph, rest;
Thy point at each dark traitor's breast,
Who would his land enthrall.
Hail! falchion heaven-sent!
That armed our struggling land!
Hail! pilgrim-staff on which she leant,
Till Salem's shining battlement
Her eye in gladness scanned.
And, till that Sword from out its sheath
Shall leap—that Staff to sever—
So long around our hearts shall wreathe
Bright Freedom's chain—her accents breathe
In holy tones forever!
That armed our struggling land!
Hail! pilgrim-staff on which she leant,
Till Salem's shining battlement
Her eye in gladness scanned.
And, till that Sword from out its sheath
Shall leap—that Staff to sever—
So long around our hearts shall wreathe
Bright Freedom's chain—her accents breathe
In holy tones forever!
| Duganne's Poetical Works | |