Oh, would that she were here,
Where glide the rosy hours,
Murm'ring the drowsy hum of bees,
And fragrant with the flowers:
Where Heaven's redeeming love
Spans earth in Mercy's bow—
The promise of the world above
Unto the world below.
Oh, would that she were here,
Amid these shades serene—
Oh, for the spell of woman's love,
To consecrate the scene!
The Sword and the Staff
The sword of the hero!
The staff of the sage!
Whose valor and wisdom
Are stamped on the age!
Time-hallowed mementos
Of those who have riven
The sceptre from tyrants,
"The lightning from heaven!"
This weapon, O Freedom!
Was drawn by the son,
And it never was sheathed
Till the battle was won!
No stain of dishonor
Upon it we see!
'Twas never surrendered—
Except to the free!
While Fame claims the hero
And patriot sage,
Their names to emblazon
On History's page,
No holier relics
Will liberty hoard
Than FRANKLIN's staff, guarded
By WASHINGTON's sword.
The Chieftain's Daughter [See Notes]
Upon the barren sand
A single captive stood;
Around him came, with bow and brand,
The red-men of the wood.
Like him of old, his doom he hears,
Rock-bound on ocean's rim:
The chieftain's daughter knelt in tears,
And breathed a prayer for him.
Above his head in air
The savage war-club swung:
The frantic girl, in wild despair,
Her arms about him flung.
Then shook the warriors of the shade,
Like leaves on aspen limb—
Subdued by that heroic maid
Who breathed a prayer for him.
"Unbind him!" gasped the chief—
"Obey your king's decree!"
He kissed away her tears of grief,
And set the captive free.
'Tis ever thus, when, in life's storm,
Hope's star to man grows dim,
An angel kneels in woman's form,
And breathes a prayer for him.
Thy Will Be Done.