 | Songs of two centuries |  |
117
IN THE WRECKAGE OF THE MAINE.
In the farm-lands or the city
Grieves a woman—sad—alone;
'Neath God's everlasting pity
She is weeping for her own.
Cabinets have toiled and wrangled,
Statesmen could not soothe her pain—
For that weary heart is tangled
In the wreckage of the Maine.
Grieves a woman—sad—alone;
'Neath God's everlasting pity
She is weeping for her own.
Cabinets have toiled and wrangled,
Statesmen could not soothe her pain—
For that weary heart is tangled
In the wreckage of the Maine.
Through the golden halls of fashion
Moves a lady tall and fair;
Round her gleam the flames of passion
On the soft magnetic air.
Suitors bow and bend above her,
But their wiles are all in vain:
She is thinking of a lover
In the wreckage of the Maine.
Moves a lady tall and fair;
Round her gleam the flames of passion
On the soft magnetic air.
Suitors bow and bend above her,
But their wiles are all in vain:
She is thinking of a lover
In the wreckage of the Maine.
On a cot, the sailor lying
Rests his soul in silent prayer;
Through the long days he is dying;
But his tears are falling there
For the gallant fellow-seamen
Who will rest, while Time shall reign,
In that sepulchre of freemen,
'Neath the wreckage of the Maine.
Rests his soul in silent prayer;
Through the long days he is dying;
But his tears are falling there
For the gallant fellow-seamen
Who will rest, while Time shall reign,
In that sepulchre of freemen,
'Neath the wreckage of the Maine.
On a continent of splendor
Is a nation calmly grand—
Freedom's natural defender—
Honest labor's helping hand:
And it speaks, half kind, half cruel:
“Liberty, O haughty Spain,
Soon may grasp another jewel
From the wreckage of the Maine!”
Is a nation calmly grand—
Freedom's natural defender—
Honest labor's helping hand:
And it speaks, half kind, half cruel:
“Liberty, O haughty Spain,
Soon may grasp another jewel
From the wreckage of the Maine!”
| Songs of two centuries | |