New poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

My Country, O thou glorious, fair, and free!
Still dear as ever to this aged heart;
I perilled life, in fullest bloom, for thee;
I fought and bled, to make thee what thou art.

But now I'm weak and old,—my work is done;
Mine eye is dark,—faint comes my sinking breath;
My hoary head is low; my setting sun—
'T is gone!—fast fall the dew and shades of death.

This arm, once nerved and raised in thy defence,—
The heart that throbbed for thee,—my home of clay,—
To thee I leave; my Leader calls me hence;—
A minute-man of years, I must away.

My brethren—they who struggled by my side
To break thy bondage, and survived the day—
Have almost vanished: one by one they've died,
While I have lingered,—asking, “Where are they?”

Where are they!—Surely not in such a grave
As we had hoped would give our ashes rest,—
In earth untilled, untrodden by a slave,—
Unburdened by oppressor and oppressed!

For when we toiled thy liberty to win,
A nation and a birthright so to gain,
'T was not to make an ingrate free to sin,
And on the helpless still to lock the chain.

'T was not in power to set the franchised high,—
To grind the weaker with an iron heel,—
That we walked forth to free thee or to die,
And our warm bosoms braved the lead and steel!

Victorious, our first prayer was, then to see—
As thy thank-offering meetest to be given—
The chains of bondage, clenched so fast by thee,
Laid on the altar of indulgent Heaven.

We all shall soon have disappeared, and be
But as the heroes of a tale that 's told;
Whilst thy glad children reap the sheaves where we
Have sown in blood, but naught of us behold.

And wilt thou let each monumental stone,
Reared to our memory, o'er our ashes stand
Until it leans, and falls, with moss o'ergrown,
While bondmen's sighs spread mildew o'er the land?

O my Columbia! hidden in thy camp,
The Babylonish garment may be found,—
The wedge of gold forbidden, that must stamp
“Guilt” on thy forehead,—“Evil” on thy ground.

Close by the Temple of thy Liberty—
Beneath its very droppings—groans the slave;
And thousands, held in bondage by the free,
Go fettered from the cradle to the grave.

Within the echo of thy Congress halls,
Where freedom towers, and right sounds loud and bold,
God's image, when the auction-hammer falls,
The soul of man, is bidden for, and sold!

And while thy champion points the silver tongue,
Or utters bolts of thunder, in thy cause,
Nature's soft heart by thee is torn and wrung,
And thou art trampling on her holiest laws.

This, dear Columbia, is the fearful thing
That keeps thee under Heaven's impending rod;
And, not relinquished, on thy head must bring
Sure retribution from a righteous God.

Plead not,—“The children's teeth were set on edge,
When sour wild grapes the guilty parents ate.”
Repent!—give up the vest and glittering wedge:—
Do thy first works—before it is too late!

Let not thy beauteous banner spread afar,
Its constellation, blazing thy proud name,
Marred by the glimmerings of a fallen star,
Whose lurid light both heaven and earth disclaim.

Farewell, my country! with my long adieu,
Take thine old servant's blessing and his dust;
And, O, receive a father's counsel, too:—
Hope thou in Heaven; but first, to man be just!