 | American poems, selected and original |  |
199
AN INTENDED INSCRIPTION
Written for the Monument on Beacon-Hill, in Boston, and addressed to the Passenger.
BY THE SAME.
Where stretch'd your sail, beneath what foreign sky
Did lovlier landscapes ever charm your eye?
Could fancy's fairy pencil, Stranger! say,
E'en dipt in dreams, a nobler scene portray?
Did lovlier landscapes ever charm your eye?
Could fancy's fairy pencil, Stranger! say,
E'en dipt in dreams, a nobler scene portray?
Behold yon vales, whose skirts elude your view,
And mountains fading to ærial blue!
Along their bow'ry shades how healthy toil
Alternate sports, or tends the mellow soil.
See rural towns mid groves and gardens rise,
And eastward,—where the stretching ocean lies,
Lo! our fair capital sublimes the scene,
New Albion's pride, and ocean's future queen;
How o'er the tradeful port august she smiles,
Her sea-like haven boasts an hundred isles,
Whence hardy commerce swells the lofty sails
O'er arctic seas, and mocks the polar gales,
Thence tides of wealth the wafting breezes bring,
And hence e'en culture feels its vital spring.
And mountains fading to ærial blue!
Along their bow'ry shades how healthy toil
Alternate sports, or tends the mellow soil.
See rural towns mid groves and gardens rise,
And eastward,—where the stretching ocean lies,
Lo! our fair capital sublimes the scene,
New Albion's pride, and ocean's future queen;
How o'er the tradeful port august she smiles,
Her sea-like haven boasts an hundred isles,
Whence hardy commerce swells the lofty sails
O'er arctic seas, and mocks the polar gales,
Thence tides of wealth the wafting breezes bring,
And hence e'en culture feels its vital spring.
These scenes our Sires from rugged nature wrought,
Since—what dire wars their patriot race have sought!
Witness yon tracts, where first the Briton bled,
Driv'n by our youth redoubted Piercy fled:
There Breed ascends, and Bunker's bleeding steeps,
Still o'er whose brow abortive Vict'ry weeps;
What Trophies since! the gaze of after times,
Rear'd Freedom's empire o'er our happy climes!
Since—what dire wars their patriot race have sought!
Witness yon tracts, where first the Briton bled,
Driv'n by our youth redoubted Piercy fled:
200
Still o'er whose brow abortive Vict'ry weeps;
What Trophies since! the gaze of after times,
Rear'd Freedom's empire o'er our happy climes!
But hence, fond Stranger, take a nobler view,
See yon shorn elm, whence all these glories grew.
Here, where the armed foe presumptious trod,
Trampled our shrines, and even mouth'd our God,
His vengeful hand, deep as the parent-root,
Lopt each grown branch, and ev'ry suckling shoot;
Because beneath her consecrated shade
Our earliest vows to Liberty were paid.
High from her Altar blew the heaven-caught fire,
While all our wealth o'erhung the kindling pyre.
How at the deed the Nations stood aghast,
As on the pile our plighted lives we cast!
See yon shorn elm, whence all these glories grew.
Here, where the armed foe presumptious trod,
Trampled our shrines, and even mouth'd our God,
His vengeful hand, deep as the parent-root,
Lopt each grown branch, and ev'ry suckling shoot;
Because beneath her consecrated shade
Our earliest vows to Liberty were paid.
High from her Altar blew the heaven-caught fire,
While all our wealth o'erhung the kindling pyre.
How at the deed the Nations stood aghast,
As on the pile our plighted lives we cast!
O! if an alien from our fair domains,
The blood of Britain, hapless, taint your veins,
Pace o'er that hallow'd ground with awful tread,
And tears, atoning, o'er yon relick shed;
But if, American! your lineage springs,
From Sires, who scorn the pedigree of kings,
A Georgian born you breathe the tepid air,
Or on the breezy banks of Delaware,
Or hardy Hampshire claim your haughty birth,
Revere yon root and kiss its nurt'ring earth:
O be its fibre fed by flowing springs,
Whence rose our empire o'er the thrones of kings:
E'en now descend, adore the dear remain,
Where first rear'd Liberty's illumin'd fane,
There all her race, while time's revolve shall come,
As pilgrims flock to Mecca's idol'd tomb.
The blood of Britain, hapless, taint your veins,
Pace o'er that hallow'd ground with awful tread,
And tears, atoning, o'er yon relick shed;
But if, American! your lineage springs,
From Sires, who scorn the pedigree of kings,
A Georgian born you breathe the tepid air,
Or on the breezy banks of Delaware,
Or hardy Hampshire claim your haughty birth,
Revere yon root and kiss its nurt'ring earth:
O be its fibre fed by flowing springs,
Whence rose our empire o'er the thrones of kings:
201
Where first rear'd Liberty's illumin'd fane,
There all her race, while time's revolve shall come,
As pilgrims flock to Mecca's idol'd tomb.
| American poems, selected and original | |