Tyrants with tyrants league,
Corruption and intrigue
To strangle infant Liberty conspire.
Around her cradle, then,
Let self-devoted men
Gather, and keep unquenched her vital fire.
When Tyranny, grown bold,
To Freedom's host cries, "Hold!
Ye towards her temple at your peril march;"
"Stop," that great host replies,
Raising to heaven its eyes,
"Stop, first, the host that moves across yon arch!"
When Tyranny commands,
"Hold thou my victim's hands,
While I more firmly rivet on his chains,
Or with my bowie-knife
I'll take your craven life,
Or show my streets bespattered with your brains,"—
Freedom with forward tread,
Unblenching, turns her head,
And drawing from its sheath her flashing glave,
Calmly makes answer: "Dare
Touch of my head one hair,
I'll cut the cord that holds your every slave!"
J. Pierpont.