To high and free imaginings
Thy master minstrels swept the strings,
The brave thy sons to triumph led,
Thy turf enshrouds the glorious dead,
And Liberty thy chaplet wove—
But thou art not the land we love.
From the far bosom of the sea
A flood of brightness rests on thee,
And stately to the bending skies
Thy temples, domes, and turrets rise:
Thy heavens—how fair they smile above!
But thou art not the land we love.
Oh, for the bleak, the rocky strand,
The mountains of our native land!
Oh, for the torrents, wild, and free,
And their rejoicing minstrelsy!
The heath below, the blue above,
The altars of the land we love!
IS NOT THE EARTH.
Is not the earth a burial place
Where countless millions sleep,
The entrance to the abode of death,
Where waiting mourners weep,
And myriads at his silent gates
A constant vigil keep?
The sculptor lifts his chisel, and
The final stroke is come,
But, dull as the marble lip he hews,
His stiffened lip is dumb;
Though the Spoiler hath cast a holier work,
He hath called to a holier home!
The soldier bends his gleaming steel,
He counts his laurels o'er,
And speaks of the wreaths he yet may win
On many a foreign shore;
But his Master declares with a sterner voice,
He shall break a lance no more!
The mariner braved the deluge long,
He bow'd to the sweeping blast,
And smiled when the frowning heavens above
Were the deepest overcast;
He hath perish'd beneath a smiling sky—
He hath laid him down at last.
Far in the sea's mysterious depths
The lowly dead are laid,
Hath not the ocean's dreadful voice
Their burial service said?
Have not the quiring tempests rung
The dirges of the dead?