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246
SONG FOR JULY 4, 1861.
Still wave our streamer's glorious folds
O'er all the brave and true,
Though ten dim stars have turned to blood
On yonder field of blue.
O'er all the brave and true,
Though ten dim stars have turned to blood
On yonder field of blue.
It is our nation's judgment-day,
That makes her stars to fall.
Lo! all the dead start from their graves
At Freedom's trumpet-call.
That makes her stars to fall.
Lo! all the dead start from their graves
At Freedom's trumpet-call.
And in the thunders of the storm
She speaks, an angel strong:
“Now comes my reign of righteousness;
Now ends the slavers' wrong.
She speaks, an angel strong:
“Now comes my reign of righteousness;
Now ends the slavers' wrong.
Lift up your heads, ye faithful ones,
For now your prayers prevail.
Ye faithless! hear the tramp of doom,
And dread the iron hail!
For now your prayers prevail.
Ye faithless! hear the tramp of doom,
And dread the iron hail!
God's last Messiah comes apace
In Freedom's awful name,
And parts the tribes to right and left,—
To glory or to shame.”
In Freedom's awful name,
And parts the tribes to right and left,—
To glory or to shame.”
Then wave the streamer's glorious folds
O'er all the brave and true,
Till all its stars shine bright again
On yonder field of blue.
O'er all the brave and true,
Till all its stars shine bright again
On yonder field of blue.
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