TO LAFAYETTE.
We'll search the earth, and search the sea,
To cull a gallant wreath for thee;
And every field for freedom fought,
And every mountain-height, where aught
Of liberty can yet be found,
Shall be our blooming harvest-ground.
Laurels in garlands hang upon
Thermopylae and Marathon;—
On Bannockburn the thistle grows;—
On Runnymead the wild rose blows;—
And on the banks of Boyne, its leaves
Green Erin's shamrock wildly weaves.
In France, in sunny France, we'll get
The Fleur-de-lys and mignonette
From every consecrated spot,
Where ties a martyr'd Huguenot;—.
And cull even here, from many a field,
And many a rocky height,
Bays, that our vales and mountains yield,
Where men have met to fight
For law, and liberty, and life,
And died in freedom's holy strife.
Below Atlantic seas,—below
The waves of Erie and Champlain,
The sea-grass and the corals grow
In rostral trophies round the slain;
And we can add to form thy crown,
Some branches worthy thy renown.
Long may the chaplet flourish bright,
And borrow from the heavens its light!
As with a cloud that circles round
A star, when other stars are set,
With glory shall thy brow be bound,
With glory shall thy head be crowned,
With glory-starlike tinctured yet:—
For air, and earth, and, sky, and sea,
Shall yield a glorious wreath to thee.