University of Virginia Library

LIBERTY.

When Truth's broad pinions scourged the angry Night
Which sepulchred the Nations, then the Earth,
Rejoicing in the splendor of her might,
Bade freedom from her mighty Tomb come forth!
As when an Earthquake, from his Dœdal Cave,
Rises aloft, stupendous, from the sleep
Of centuries—so rose she from her grave,
Making the Tyrant in her presence weep!
The sound, like thunder, broke on Europe's shore,
Where many millions bent the abject knee—
Crouching to hear the British Lion roar!
For when they heard the shout of Liberty!
They started!—an electric shiver ran,
Like lightning, through each vein—(as Ocean's waves
Beneath the Whirlwind's breath,) when, man by man,
They stood erect, forgetting they were slaves!
But like the blighted Forest in the storm,
Worm-eaten at the heart, by Whirlwinds slain—
Laden with heavy chains—each manly form
Fell prostrate—hushing in his broken heart
The earthquake of sweet joy, which therein sprung
As flowers from out the earth are seen to start—
Then die all suddenly, though they are young!
And though weighed down beneath the weight of chains,
Mildewed by their own tears, which fell thereon
In torrents, wrung from out their hearts, whose pains
Were agonies,—the name of Washington
Fell on their ears like dew upon parched flowers,
Greening their souls with joy—till they were free
From Tyranny's dark wings—(from all such powers,)
Whose shade is death—to dwell with Liberty!
Oh! 'twas the sweetest sound ear ever heard!
A Voice whose music was the Soul of Love!
Known unto many only by that word—
For Angels bent to hear it from above!
If ever there was one foul name on earth,
It is that cruel, cursed name called King!
Beneath whose breath no freedom can come forth—
And in whose path no flowery good can spring!
He is that foul embodiment of wrong—
Injustice brooding over human right—
Who, in the absence of the TRUTH, grows strong,
But, in her presence, sinks to abject night!
This Angel, brooding first upon the sea—
Whose mighty wings were spread from shore to shore—
Is soaring Westward now, whose flight shall be
A scourge to Darkness which flies on before—
Where Freedom's children, in the bands of love,
Crowned with the Oaky boughs forever green—
Shall feast with joy, while Angels from above
Shall smile in transport on the joyful scene—
And hear the scream of Eagles from the East,
Answering the scream of Eagles from the West,
Coming, their last time, from their final feast
Upon the flesh of Kings, in peace to rest.