University of Virginia Library

Highest among the Nations hast thou stood,
My Country! since the dark and trying hour,
When, from the waste of anarchy and blood
Thou didst arise, Minerva-like, to power,
High-souled asserter of the rights of man,
The holy Zoar of exiles from afar,
Emancipated from the tyrant's ban
Beneath the banner of thine own fair star.
And well hast thou in triumph borne thy sway
Among the constellations of thy sphere,
Giving high promise of a brighter day,
When all shall worship thee in love and fear.
Mocked and blasphemed on Europe's vassal shore,
Monarchs have watched thee in unceasing hate,
And bann'd the nation that for ever more
Shall fix the boundary of tyrannic fate;
And subtle Statesmen, in o'erweening pride,
And bigots, brooding o'er their blighted realm,
Like magi menace thou wilt not abide
When Anarchs fierce shall guide thy mighty helm,
And bribery poison, and corruption gnaw
The great heart of thy people, and the sword
Be, as in Sylla's days, supremest law,
And each high hearted man no more be heard
In the deep councils of his country's weal,
Than the poor serf, who saved his native land
To reap the guerdon, all must reap who feel,
Unquestioned villenage to brute command.
Wild rage (they say) shall sunder the great bond
Of Union—and proud oligarchs arise,
Bringing dismay and death—and so beyond
The veil of thy bright power, their serpent eyes
Behold what ages never shall reveal,
As Heaven forefend! for to thy mighty breast
Ten thousand heart-strings, quick to throb and feel,
Bind all the freeborn Nations of the West.

Yet, oh! thus early in thy proud career,
Wilt thou forget the world stands gazing on?
And deem the danger scarcely worth thy fear,
That, like a shade from empires lost and gone,
Comes o'er thee now?—My Country! shall thy brow
Shed sunshine on the path of him who lifts
His will above thy law, and dares to throw
Defiance—while he scorns not basest shifts
To seize a power, that must, in evil hands,
Bring desolation and despair and death
O'er glad societies, and prospering lands—
And leave pale Senates but a fearful breath?
So soon wilt thou prove faithless to thy trust,
And scorn the last farewell thy great Chief left,
When, e'en in death, his judgment, ever just,
Not of its brightness nor its truth bereft,
Warned thee and counselled—like a father cried
Aloud to save the fabric of thy fame?
And shall the prayer of wisdom be denied,
And war pursue the worship of a name?
Wilt thou fulfil the dark dreams of thy foes,
And aggrandize the worthless and the vain,
Pamper rude passion, gild, with tints of rose,
Low vice, and scatter pearls like sunny rain
Around red Mars and his dwarf satellites—
The savage reptiles of a darkened day—
The filthy serpents of the fen?—Ye rights
Of action, triumph while ye can and may!
Shall Slaves be Tyrants? shall the villein herd
Who bear the warrior to our throne of State,
Rule with a gesture, stifle with a word,
Sit high, and toll the curfew of our fate!
To what vile arts and black hypocrisies
The lust of dark dominion will debase
Low thoughted man, who, mixed with things like these,
Runneth through marsh and brier, a maniac race,
The gray locks of his unrepentant age
Waving in every breeze, and spectral care
Throned on his brow, that, furrowed o'er by rage
Of wild ambition, darkens in despair!

Dare not, my Country! leave the path once trod
By the one Hero of thy trying time!
He yet beholds thee from the mount of God,
Yet walks the mountains of his glorious clime,
And cries aloud in every wind—“Beware!
“Can ye not prize the diamond bought with blood?”
“Go, go to Vernon! plot and practise there!”
Hear ye the parted Sage—who long withstood
Foreign intrigue, domestic treachery,
And every guile that evil spirits use?
He speaks in tones whose echoes cannot die,
His country's prophet, and her history's muse!
Shall monarchs gloat o'er tidings of misrule,
And leaden lords in chuckling triumph tell
How voting boors were left in ‘dismal dule,’
When the old Chieftain's wrath and sabre fell?
Shall purse-proud men, to glut ignoble pride,
Ape the poor fashions of a worn-out realm,
Happy to float, gilt pageants, on the tide,
While black ambition guides the rushing helm?
—Thou yet hast sons, whose voices must be heard,
Ere desolation on thy shore descends;
And hearts, like fountains by an angel stirr'd,
Send up deep murmurs, whose wild music blends
With every thought and magic feeling true
To love and peace, and liberty and power;
Thou yet hast sons whose life blood may imbrue
The Idol's altar—God avert the hour!