O deep was the gloom on our sad land descending,
And wild was the moan from the tempest's dread form,
While the heroes and sires of our country were bending
Their souls to their God, and their brows to the storm.
Who bounds to the shore from the dark bosom'd ocean,
In the sparkle and pride of his beauty and youth?
His ardent mind burning, his soul all devotion,
To the high cause of liberty, justice and truth?
He joins the bold band, who, with spirits undaunted,
Strive to guard and to win, all man's bosom holds dear;
It is done! they have triumph'd! and heaven has granted
Fair freedom to crown their majestic career.
How lovely the land where the bright sun is flinging
The purple and gold from his throne in the west!
There millions of hearts in their gladness are singing,
There finds the poor exile contentment and rest.
The eagle that rush'd on a torn, bloody pinion,
And soar'd to the sky 'mid the clamors of light,
Now wings his proud way in untroubled dominion,
While the nations all silently gaze on his flight.
Who comes o'er the billow with head bent and hoary,
With full throbbing heart, and with glistening eye
Past years roll before him—the scene of his glory
Fills his heart with emotions, deep, solemn and high.
Great man! thy lov'd name to the skies is ascending,
A name whose remembrance no time can destroy,
While gladness and grief are within us contending,
For all thou hast suffer'd, and all we enjoy.
We will rank thee with him, who was sent us by heaven;
Ye shall meet in our hearts as in glory ye met:
Spread, ye winds, the glad news! to our wishes is given
The friend of our WASHINGTON, brave LAFAYETTE.
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.