University of Virginia Library

BIRTH-DAY SONG OF LIBERTY.

A PÆAN OF GLORY FOR THE HEROES OF FREEDOM.

PREFACE.

Inspired by that self-rewarding enthusiasm which always fills the heart with rapture—being the first-born Cherub of the soul's rapport with the infinite splendor's of God—I composed, on the second week after the reception of the above invitation, the following Pæan of Glory for the Heroes of Freedom who now dwell in apothosis in Heaven, but not having recovered from previous indisposition, as well as from the fatigue of former labors, I did not feel ambitious enough on the Day of the Jubilee to deliver it.

It is now printed for the delight of those noble souls—the true Princes of the Land, who know how to appreciate an effort to perpetuate, for the rising generation, the memories of these God-like Heroes who have risen from their mortal spheres, in which their lives have done the world perrennial good, into those more glorious golden ones of the Angels of the life-everlasting—knowing, at the same time, that much of its charm is lost, even to the critical reader, for the want of the voice of the Nuncio.

It was written not only as a laudable response to their request to make the Day a delectable Passover for the legitimate Children of this million-peopled Israel of Liberty; but as a faithful Revelation of that life of freedom which lives immortal in the soul of the author.

As the Violastre, by feeding on the May-dew, becomes the image of Heaven; so does a man, at length, incarnate the thing which he contemplates—crystalizing himself into the song that he sings. As in the Eumenides of Æschylus, the Furies which chase Orestes into the Temple of Apollo, fall asleep while he is kneeling down before the Statue of the God: so do the tripple-mouthed Ban-dogs of Hell sink down into slumberous silence before the face of that soul, who, in dispite of Death or Hell, worships the Beautiful with the reverence of a God.

Should any parched traveler, weary with journeying onward towards the Promised Land, by drinking from this Wellspring of enthusiasm, feel his soul refreshed for the full consummation of his longings after the Halcyon-Haven—enriched with a diviner legacy of gracefulness to put on the whole armour of the Perfect Man—the author will have accomplished the fullest fruition of his desires.

I.

Let us sing to the Lord a New Song now of Glory—
Let us sing—that this Song may be sung here alway—
From the Star-girdled throne of this world's promontory,
Of this Fourth of July. Fredom's Hero-born Day.
See! the bright Morning Stars of this Great Day are shining
On the white Irised Field of this Banner unfurled,
Floating high up in Heaven, to that Heaven now divining,
In its still silent thunders, God's will to the world!
Let us sing to the Lord for this Day's Celebration,
While we stand here enthroned under Liberty's Tree,
Where the Thirty-six Stars make the bright Constellation
Of the Land of the Beautiful, the Land of the Free.
Then strike the bold harp! sing aloud, friends, forever,
While the Star flag of Freedom floats over the Sea,
Of the deeds of those Heroes whose fame shall die never
In the Land of the Beautiful, the Land of the Free—
The Land of the Glorious—
Great Washington victorious
Over all the foul Legions that came to destroy us—
Land of the Beautiful! Land of the Free!

II.

Hear ye not the loud shouts of the jubilant Nations
Lifting up their proud hearts in one joyous acclaim
To the Heroes who dwell in their blest Habitations,
Filling all the wide world with great Washington's name?
The Republic of Heaven, with her myriad loud voices,
Re-echoes the shouts that now float through the sky;
While the Sun on his thunder-harp burningly rejoices
That the Earth owns another that never can die.
Now the Carolan tolls!—from the Watchtowers of Glory,
Hear the loud swell of thunder boom over the sea!
It is Freedom's God-voice gone to tell the sweet story
To the Land of the Beautiful, the Land of the Free.
Strike—strike the bold harp! &c.

III.

Like ten thousand sweet harps struck by Angels all singing,
Comes the God-voice of Hope down from Heaven through the sky,
To the millions of Europe Glad Tidings now bringing,
That the Day of their Deliverence from slavery draws nigh.
The Despots of Europe begin now to tremble,
As the Children of Darkness cry out for more light;
For the slaves their rich Tyrants in manhood resemble,
The more their foul wrongs feel the truth of the right.
The agonized Spirits down in darkness now clamor—
Even the Devils down in Hell wail aloud now to flee;
For they bear the loud clink of the Freeman's Thor-Hammer
Building joy for the Beautiful—the Fanes of the Free.
Then strike the bold harp! &c.

IV.

From the embers long smouldering beneath the dark ashes,
The golden-winged Phœnix of Liberty doth rise,
Plumed with Cherubic wings, which with glory now flashes,
As it soars up, redeemed, singing Joy! through the skies!
The Whirlwinds now sweep through the worm-eaten Forest,
And the Past, long decaying, lies low in the dust;
Hell-fire out of Heaven God in vengeance down-pourest
On the head of that soul who in Hell puts his trust!
The Pillars of Eternity are shaken by the thunder,
And the Ocean of Hell boils such havoc to see!
While Europe comes wailing for her thrones torn asunder,
By the Voice of the Beautiful, the Voice of the Free.
Then strike the bold harp! &c.

V.

Hear the Orphic Evangels of the Angels in chorus,
Sweeping down, in the fragrance of Song, through the sky;
While the White Doves of Peace hover flutteringly before us,
To the Nest of the Halcyons that never can die.
By the undulant waves of the manifold Nations,
I perceive that the Spirit of a God walks this way!
The tumultuous joys of their soul's jubilations,
Proclaiming Man free who walks Godlike to-day.
See! the Morning is dawning—the Night now departing,
As the Angels all flock from the Isles of the Sea!
Hell's Gates from their adamant hinges are starting
At the Voice of the Beautiful, the voice of the Free.
Strke—strike the bold harp! &c.

VI.

Let us sing of brave Putnam, the great Lion-hearted,
Who fought over Bunker from morning till even,
When his soul from his body in battle was parted,
And borne up by Angels to the Mountains of Heaven.
Other demigods fought, world-renowned for their valor,
When they scourged England's host back through fire to the sea,
And from Battle went up through the Gates of Valhalla
To the Land of the Beautiful, the Land of the Free.
See the bright Morning Stars of this Day of Salvation,
From the tops of the Mountains rise over the sea,
And proclaim to the world this sublime consummation,
That our forefathers died that their Sons might be free.
Strike—strike the bold harp! &c.

VII.

Let us sing of those Fifty-six souls, now Immortals,
Who signed Magna Charta that Fourth of July,
Who now look down from Heaven through the crystalline Portals
On the deeds left behind them that never can die.
Let us sing how we penned old John Bull in the Cowpens,
When he broke over all rushing down to the sea,
In that Huguenot Land where the Palmetto bough bends,
In the Land of the Beautiful, the Land of the Free.
We will sing of those Heroes who made this day glorious—
Of the Patriots who dwell where no eye now can see,
But who look down from Heaven on the Land now victorious,
And rejoice with the Beautiful, the Sons of the Free.
Strike—strike the bold harp! &c.

VIII.

Sing of Dorchester Heights, when the dark night was stormy,
Where the Ramparts struck terror to the Hosts on that morn,
When the Angels of Vengeance scourged back the proud Army
Of the merciless King, when King Freedom was born!
Sing aloud of Virginia, blessed Land of great Heroes,
Who trod on the Tyrant's neck, scourged to the sea—
Crying Victory! victory! to the cowardly Neroes
Who fled down to Hell from the Sons of the Free!
Let us sing of brave Moultrie, the beautiful Jasper,
Who drove back the British, disgraced, to the sea,
From the Harbor of Charleston, when sent there to grasp her,
And left the proud Amazon Queen of the Free.
Strike—strike the bold harp! &c.

IX.

Let us sing of Mount Vernon, the world's Promontory,
Where the bones of the Hero now peacefully lie,
While his soul basks in bliss on the Mountains of Glory,
Crowned King of the Heroes who never can die.
Hark! the minuit-gun booms! wails aloud the departed!
America the blest weeps like one now forlorn!
For, like Rachel of Ramah, she bleeds broken-hearted,
For the loss of that Joy who can never return!
See! the riderless war-horse walks on by his coffin,
Where the Hero lies sleeping no more now to see;
Where America bends at his grave, now, so often,
With her thirty-six Heroes to mourn now with me!
Strike—strike the bold harp! &c.

X.

Now, no loud pealing cannon can wake from his slumber
The Hero who lies in that peaceful abode,
Where the Angels come down every night without number,
To sing at his grave while his soul rests with God.
What avails me to mention their names now in glory?
Enough that I sing how they reign now on high;
Their names shall be known when the Sun has grown hoary—
As their souls are immortal, their deeds cannot die.
Their years are like God's—for their lives are eternal;
Their days are too long for the Sun's eye to see;
Their joys are like Christ's—for their souls are supernal—
In the Land of the Beautiful—the Land of the Free.
Strike—strike the bold harp! &c.

XI.

With their coronels of Cypress, fresh crowned, sadly weeping,
The Muses now kneel at his grave where he lies,
Wailing Requiems divine just to wake him from sleeping—
Only lulling him deeper to sleep with their cries!
See! the train-bands of Angels from Heaven down descending
Through the wide-opened Gates on their gold hinges hung!
Clouds of Glory around them—bright Seraphs attending
Singing songs such before Angel's lips never sung!
Break your Trumpets Marine, all you sweet blowing Tritons!
By the which you yon Dolphins once penned in the sea;
Hang your harps on the Willows, ye Minstrels of Britian!
And mourn for this Hero who died for the Free!
Strike—strike the bold harp! &c.

XII.

Let us sing how Victoria of Alba Regalis
Coalesced with Napoleon on the Land, on the Sea,
Just as though the glass doors of the Emperor's Palace
Were built of the Oak of great Liberty's Tree.
But this Canaan of Countries—this Land of best races,
Would beat both together, or plough up the sea—
Shut the doors of her commerce right in their two faces—
For she builds all her Ships out of Liberty's Tree.
Then the Queen of the Antilles, the Island of Cuba
They covet the most as the Gem of the Sea;
But the hand that shall wear on its finger this Ruby,
Is the hand of the Beautiful, the hand of the Free.
Then strike the bold harp! &c.

XIII.

Thus the heroes of Hungary, with voices of thunder,
Hurled back the gross insult when treacherously given—
Swearing never to rest till they rent them asunder,
As the lightning the oak, by the vengeance of Heaven!
For they asked but for justice—for justice they wanted—
Their wishes were few, yet they asked them in vain;
They then cried out for bread, but red scorpions were granted,
And commands from the Tyrant to tighten their chain!
But rather than Hungary should have compensation
For the loss of her freedom—her sons slain in fight—
The tyrant of Austria then sold all his nation—
First selling himself to the dark Muscovite!
Strike—strike the bold harp! &c.

XIV.

With the voice of an Angel that wakes from their slumber,
The dead in their graves, there no longer to lie,
Kossutii called the Hungarians to rise without number,
And they blazed out in answer like stars in the sky!
Hear the thundering curses from the proud hearts of millions,
On the Tyrants now hurled, like the Simoon's hot breath;
May the Lightnings of God blast these merciless villians
Who shall go down to Hell from the Red Field of Death!
To that God-chosen land, far beyond the deep ocean,—
That Canaan of countries, the Land of the Free,—
From this dark Nile of Night, come away to God's Goshen,
And eat the ripe fruit plucked from Liberty's tree.
Strike—strike the bold harp! &c.

XV.

From the Ancient Eternities far-sounding, far-sounding—
From the Dynastic Gods down the whole length of Nile—
Where their wisdom stands throned up in Pyramids astounding—
Where their God-Songs are Mountains of stone pile on pile;
Through the Patriarchs, the Prophets, the Apostles, the Fathers,
To the Olympian Pericles of the Violet Queen;
Through the Dark Ages down to this Age which now gathers
All the best for the greatest that the world yet has seen;
From the Blind King of Greece to the Blind King of England,
Came the God-voice of Glory I sing now to thee—
From Thermopylæ's Heroes down to Marston Moor's King-land,
To the Runnymede Heroes who died to be free.
Strike—strike the bold harp! &c.

XVI.

From the Orphics of Prophets to the Clarion of Luther,
Whose words fell like Meteors from God's Armory driven—
(After lava has flowed then the Valley looks smoother—)
From his soul, overcharged, swept the thunders of Heaven!
Not from Kingdoms of Men, but from Kingdoms of Nature,
Was he taught the Old Truths which to Angels were given,
Which he drank till the God might be seen in the creature—
Though his feet here on earth, yet his head was in Heaven!
Those world-older Truths, spoken long in God's hearing,
By the Angels of Eden, have crossed the deep Sea—
In the souls of the crownless new Gods reappearing—
Crowned Kings of the Beautiful—God-Kings of the Free.
Strike—strike the bold harp! &c.

XVII.

As the bright Morning Stars sang together at creation,
And the Sons of God shouted for joy on that morn—
So, these Heroes of Freedom with the like-jubilation
Proclaimed to the World when Christ-Freedom was born.
Then from Plymouth to Jamestown the joy spread like lightning,
While Europe stood trembling such shoutings to hear;
While the Sun up in Heaven seemed with new glory brightning,
At the Nation's grand Anthem filling heaven with its cheer.
Like an Amazon of fire running back through the Ages,
Or Ezekiel's great River growing wide as the sea—
Burst the grand stream of splendor from the rapt lips of Sages,
Through the Land of the Beautiful, the Souls of the Free.
Then strike the bold harp! &c.

XVIII.

Like De Leons they longed for the life everlasting—
For the Isles of Lucayo they pined, full of love;
Now God's River of Life their pure spirits are tasting
In the Edens of Glory in the Joy-Isles above.
By long-waiting they triumphed, by long suffering grew stronger,
For they truly believed that in God they could trust;
Once the World waited long, but it waits now no longer,
For as instinct with Heaven, so it rose from the dust.
Now let Milton's God-soul sing the Sword of great Hampden,
While God's Anthems sweep up from the far-sounding sea,
I will sing how Fame's Heroes fell crownless at Camden,
To be crowned up in God-land God's Sons of the Free!
Strike—strike the bold harp! &c.

XIX.

Then the New Earth arose with her bridal adorning,
To meet the New Heaven her young Bridegroom in love,
For their Nuptials prepared on the Mountains of Morning,
Where they both were made one by God's voice from above.
What are centuries of sorrow to Eternities of gladness?
What are sufferings on earth to the bliss of the blest?
But one moment in Heaven would forget all our sadness,
As though we had never known any thing but rest.
In the visions of sleep, in the silent night-watches,
Came this Glory of God which I sing now to thee;
As the Angels sang Shepherds Glad Tidings in snatches,
So I sing now this Beautiful, this Land of the Free.
Then strike the bold harp! &c.

XX.

Thus the Appointed of God now beholds his Ideal
Correspond with the infinite truths of God's love—
Feels his Heaven-born thoughts in his life now made real,
Till the old earth below looks like New Earth above.
Thus the God-ordained Heroes with God covenanted
For the eternal inheritance bequeathed us this Day;
For the prayers that they prayed God in Heaven to them granted,
Which shall last with their Sons till the world fades away.
For the seeds which they sowed with their strong arms broad casting,
Have sprung up, world-wide, like the fields of the sea,
In the sweet golden grain of the life-everlasting,
For the Sons of the Beautiful, the Sons of the Free.
Then strike the bold harp! &c.

XXI.

Once but Thirteen bright Stars blazed aloft on this Banner—
So but One led the Magii where the Angel-child lay—
Now burn Thirty-six States, interstriped, with Hosannah
To the Heroes who fought for the Thirteen that Day.
But they fought not for conquest—for freedom they wanted;
They strove not for might, but the right of the right;
And they conquered the Conquerer—for their prayers all were granted,
By the God, not the foe, who directed the fight.
Thus the Prophets of old saw, when rapt up in vision,
This Island of Eternity spring out of the sea,
Clothed with glory newborn, full of Islands Elysian,
Called the Land of the Beautiful, the Land of the Free.
Then strike the bold harp! &c.

XXII.

Let us keep this great Sabbath of the Nation now holy,
This Sunday of Freedom for the Children of the Sun,
Praising God with loud shouts full of heart-worship solely,
That the whole world may know we are Many in One.
For as God rested after He had built the Creation,
Spread His Starspangled Banner Heaven-woven in the sky;
So, the God-like who fought for this world's restoration,
Rested first from their labors on the Fourth of July.
From the Watchtower of Freedom now floats the rich Banner,
The Eagle-crowned staff carved from Liberty's Tree—
Over all the proud millions who sing their Hosannah
To the Land of the Beautiful, the Land of the Free.
Strike—strike the bold harp! &c.

XXIII.

Now the Olympian Thunders no longer shall rattle
Their chains on the summit of Heaven's proud Hill;
Nor the Clarion of War call the Gods down to battle,
For the Angel of Peace walks in triumph here still.
Then the chain that once clanked round the limbs of the Angel
On the Caucasus-Rock, by the Prophet is riven;
For the lips of the Lord spoke that withering Evangel
Which smote down to Hell the Usurper from Heaven!
Now the last solemn swing of the Death-bell goes tolling,
From the Watchtowers of Freedom, across the deep sea,
For the Tyrant's swift death, like an ocean-wave rolling
Through the Land of the Beautiful, the Land of the Free.
Then strike the bold harp! &c.

XXIV.

Blow the Clarion of Victory, loud Hero-Horn-Jallar,
Great Heimdall, the golden-lipped waker of Gods!
Gather all the great souls in the Halls of Valhalla,
Baldar waits now to crown them in Odin's Abodes!
Blow the Pæan of Glory for the Heroes of Freedom,
Till they rise, all redeemed, to their Halcyon abodes;
Wake the Nations from sleep—all the ransomed now lead home,
With thy thunder-trump blazon, great Waker of Gods!
Hark! the beautiful Baldar God's Telyn is sounding—
Heaven's Apples now fall from Iduna's sweet Tree—
Theobroma, with life everlasting abounding,
For the souls of the Beautiful, the souls of the Free.
Strike—strike the bold harp! &c.

XXV.

Hark! the Asar-Cock crows, filling Gimle with thunder,
Answering Heimdall's great Horn blowing loud for the brave;
While from Hela they march, singing, full of sweet wonder,
Up to Valhalla's Halls, shouting, Wave, Banners! wave!
Up to beautiful Baldar from the infinite Nadir,
Chanting Odin's sweet Runes, by three Nornir upborne,
Soar Eternity's Heroes where Almighty Alfader
Sits crowned in Bethshimmin on the Mountains of Morn.
Now like clouds of sweet fragrance from Altars uprising,
Wreathing Nosegays of Eden's bliss wide as the sea,
Floats the incense of song, all their comates surprising
With the joys of the Beautiful, the joys of the Free.
Strike—strike the bold harp! &c.

XXVI.

While we banquet on earth with Ambrosial carousals,
Whose perennial returns date this Fourth of July,
They are crowned now by Christ with immortal espousals,
Co-heirs of that Glory which never can die.
Mount, mount, all you souls who are earth now adorning,
In the trance-swoons of bliss fly away to your rest!
Where they sit on the top of God's Mountain this Morning,
In the Circles of Seraphs singing songs with the blest!
Avolarit! they cry, while their harps they are sweeping;
Resurrexit! they shout while they cry, Evohe!
Alleluyah! they sing while the whole world is weeping:
Doxa Theo! they pour—We are free! we are free!
Then strike the bold harp! &c.

XXVII.

See! the bright Constellations of Suns how they cluster
At the Portals of Gimle, crowned Asar to meet—
Brighter far than whole Suns in their crystalline lustre,
Crowned God-heads of Glory, full of Heavens now replete.
With great Hœmir they drink out of Urdur's sweet fountain,
Virthandi's white wine streaming joy through each vein—
Then to Ida-Plain march on the top of God's Mountain,
Where Odin sits singing sweet songs for the slain!
From their yesterday's seed spring immortal to-morrows;
From the blood of great Heroes sprang Liberty's Tree;
Now the Future shall wipe away all their past sorrows
From the souls of the Beautiful, the joys of the Free.
Strike—strike the bold harp! &c.

XXVIII.

But the deeds of those Heroes, though praised here by Minions,
What tongue but an Angel's can fitly proclaim?
Or a quill newly plucked from a Cherub's bright pinions,
Dipt in Heaven's own dyes, truly write their great fame?
With their feet newly washed they now walk the green Mountains,
Where the Morning is Noon, where the Noon melts to even;
While ten thousand sweet streams flow in song from their fountains,
Making glad the green Valleys with the Edens of Heaven.
As the Sun shines too bright for the bare eyes to gaze on,
But still we delight his great glory to see;
So, nothing less God-like than God's love can blazen
The deeds of the Beautiful, the fame of the Free
Then strike the bold harp! &c.

XXIX.

Thus Eternity's Rose in fruition's sweet blossom,
Blazes out from its bud in new beauties alway,
That sweet Nosegay of Freedom which grows in Christ's bosom,
And fills the wide world with its fragrance to-day.
Should your cups overflow with the white wine of pleasure—
Should your hearts overflow with the red wine of love—
Pour them down at one draught—pledge your souls without measure—
So the Gods drink together in the White Halls above.
See them cluster, like stars, at the crystalline Portals,
Filling Heaven with their shouts poured for Earth's Jubilee!
Weaving Garlands of Glory for the New-born Immortals
Who have died for the Beautiful, the Land of the Free!
Strike—strike the bold harp! sing aloud, friends, forever,
Of the joys that my heart has so long longed to see—
Of the Day which my soul thought would come to me never
In the Land of the Beautiful, the Land of the Free—
The Land of the Glorious—
Great Washington victorious
Over all the foul Legions who came to destroy us—
Land of the Beautiful! Land of the Free!