O Mother of a mighty race, Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! The elder dames, thy haughty peers, Admire and hate thy blooming years; With words of shame And taunts of scorn they join thy name. For on thy cheeks the glow is spread That tints thy morning hills with red; Thy step,—the wild deer’s rustling feet Within thy woods are not more fleet; Thy hopeful eye Is bright as thine own sunny sky. Ay, let them rail, those haughty ones, While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. They do not know how loved thou art, How many a fond and fearless heart Would rise to throw Its life between thee and the foe. They know not, in their hate and pride, What virtues with thy children bide,— How true, how good, thy graceful maids Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades; What generous men Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen; What cordial welcomes greet the guest By thy lone rivers of the west; How faith is kept, and truth revered, And man is loved, and God is feared, In woodland homes, And where the ocean border foams. There ’s freedom at thy gates, and rest For earth’s down-trodden and opprest, A shelter for the hunted head, For the starved laborer toil and bread. Power, at thy bounds, Stops, and calls back his baffled hounds. O fair young mother! on thy brow Shall sit a nobler grace than now. Deep in the brightness of thy skies, The thronging years in glory rise, And, as they fleet, Drop strength and riches at thy feet. Thine eye, with every coming hour, Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower; And when thy sisters, elder born, Would brand thy name with words of scorn, Before thine eye Upon their lips the taunt shall die.
America
More from Poet
|
Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armèd hands Encountered in the battle-cloud. Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave,— Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to... |
OUR 1 band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion’s name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress-tree; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea; We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades... |
HERE are old trees, tall oaks and gnarled pines, That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet To linger here, among the flitting birds, And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds That... |
[1861] lay down the axe, fling by the spade; Leave in its track the toiling plough; The rifle and the bayonet-blade For arms like yours were fitter now; And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman’s crookèd brand, and rein The charger on the... |
|
O Mother of a mighty race, Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! The elder dames, thy haughty peers, Admire and hate thy blooming years; With words of shame And taunts of scorn they join thy name. For on thy cheeks the glow is spread That tints thy morning hills with red; Thy step,—the wild... |