 | The writings of Robert C. Sands |  |
IX.
“But a Spirit there is, who his presence enshrouds,Enthroned on our hills in his mantle of clouds.
He speaks in the whirlwind; the river outpours
Its tribute to him, where the cataract roars.
His breath is the air we inhale; and his reign
Shall endure till the waters have triumphed again;
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And the bosom of darkness its fabric receive!
'Tis THE SPIRIT OF FREEDOM! and ne'er shall our grave
Be trod by the recreant, or spurned by the slave!
And lo! as the vision of years rolls away,
When our tribes shall have pass'd, and the victor hath sway,
That spirit I mark o'er the war-cloud presiding;
The storm that rolls upward sublime he is guiding;
It is bursting in terror; and choked is the path
Of peace, by the ruins it whelms in its wrath.
The rivers run blood; and the war-caldron boils,
By the flame of their cities, the blaze of their spoils.
Bend, bend from your clouds, and rejoice in the sight,
Ye ghosts of the red men! for freedom they fight!
| The writings of Robert C. Sands | |