The graves where they moulder no foe has profaned,
But we wreathe them with verdure, and strew them with flowers!
The blood of no brother, in civil strife pour'd,
In this hour of rejoicing, encumbers our souls!
The frontier's the field for the Patriot's sword,
And cursed be the weapon that Faction controls!
Chorus—"Hail to the day, etc.
"Then hail to the day! 'tis with memories crowded,
Delightful to trace 'midst the mists of the past,
Like the features of Beauty, bewitchingly shrouded,