When by your side first in th' advent'rous strife,
He dauntless rush'd, too prodigal of life?
Enough of merit has each honour'd name,
To shine, untarnish'd, on the rolls of fame;
To stand th' example of each distant age,
And add new lustre to th' historic page:
For soon their deeds, illustrious, shall be shown
In breathing bronze, or animated stone,
Or where the canvass, starting into life,
Revives the glories of the crimson strife.
Ye sons of genius, who the pencil hold,
Whose master strokes, beyond description bold,
Of other years and climes the hist❜ry trace,
Can ye for this neglect your kindred race?
Columbia calls her parent voice demands
More grateful off 'rings from your filial hands.
And soon some bard shall tempt the untry'd themes,
Sing how we dar'd, in Fortune's worst extremes;
What cruel wrongs th' indignant patriot bore,
What various ills your feeling bosoms tore,
What boding terrors gloom'd the threat'ning hour,
When British legions, arm'd with death-like pow'r,
Bade desolation mark their crimson'd way,
And lur'd the savage to his destin'd prey;
When fierce Germania her battalions pour'd,
And Rapine's sons, with wasting fire and sword,
Spread death around: where'er your eyes ye turn'd,
Fled were the peasants, and the village burn'd.
How did your hearts for others' suff'rings melt!
What tort'ring pangs your bleeding country felt!
What! when you fled before superior force,
Each succour lost, and perish'd each resource!
When nature, fainting from the want of food,
On the white snow your steps were mark'd in blood!
When through your tatter'd garbs you met the wind,
Despair before, and ruin frown'd behind!
When nought was seen around, but prospects drear,
Th' insulting foe hung dreadful on your rear,
And boastful ween'd, that day to close the scene,
And quench your name, as though it ne'er had been.
Why, Britain, rag'd thine insolence and scorn? Why burst thy vengeance on the wretch forlorn?
The cheerless captive, to slow death consign'd,
Chill'd with keen frost, in prison glooms confin'd;
Of hope bereft, by thy vile minions curst,
With hunger famish'd, and consum'd with thirst,
Without one friend-when death's last horror stung,
Roll'd the wild eye, and gnaw'd the anguish'd tongue.
Why, Britain, in thine arrogance and pride,
Didst thou heav'n's violated laws deride,
Mock human mis'ry with contemptuous sneers,
And fill thy cup of guilt with orphans' tears?
The widow's wailing, and the wretch's groan,
Rise in remembrance to th' eternal throne,
While the red flame, through the broad concave driv❜n,
Calls down the vengeance of insulted heav'n.
And didst thou think, by cruelty refin'd,
To damp the ardour of the heav'n-born mind,
With haughty threats to force the daring train
To bow, unnerv'd, in slav'ry's galling chain;
Make countless freemen-then no longer free,
Shrink at thy frown, and bend the servile knee?
And couldst thou dream? then wake, dissolve thy charms,
Rous'd by their wrongs, see desp'rate hosts in arms!
No fear dismays, nor danger's voice appals,
While kindred blood for sacred vengeance calls;
Their swords shall triumph o'er thy vaunted force,
And curb the conqu'ror in his headlong course.
What spoils of war, thy sons, Columbia, claim'd!
What trophies rose, where thy red ensigns flam'd!
Where the great chief, o'er Del'ware's icy wave,
Led the small band, in danger doubly brave;
On high designs, and ere the dawning hour,
Germania's vet'ran's own'd the victor's pow'r;
Or on the muse's plain, where round thy tomb,
O gallant Mercer! deathless laurels bloom;
Or where, anon, in northern fields renown'd,
The tide of slaughter stain'd the sanguine grounds
When the bold freemen, gath'ring from afar,
Foil'd the proud foe, and crush'd the savage war:
On that brave band their country's plaudit waits,
And consecrates to fame the name of Gates.
Nor less the valour of the impetuous shock,
Which seiz'd the glorious prize on Hudson's rock,
Where Wayne, e'en while he felt the whizzing ball,
Pluck'd the proud standard from the vanquish'd wall.
Now turn your eyes, where southern realms are seen,
From ruin rescu'd, by th' immortal Greene:
See toils of death, where many a hero bleeds,
Till rapid vict'ry, to defeat, succeeds.
On num'rous plains, whose streams, unknown to song,
Till this great æra, roll'd obscure along,
Their names shall now, to fame familiar grown,
Through the long lines in silence move along:
The stars and lilies, here in laurels drest,
And there, dark shrouds the banner'd pride invest:
These twice twelve banners once in pomp unfurl'd,
Spread death and terror round the southern world:
In various colours from the staff unroll'd,
The lion frown'd, the eagle flam'd in gold;
Hibernia's harp, reluctant, here was hung,
And Scotia's thistle there spontaneous sprung:
These twice twelve flags no more shall be display'd,
Save in the dome where warlike spoils are laid:
Since, where the fathers in high council meet,
This hand has plac'd them prostrate at their feet.
So beam the glories of the victor band!
And such the dawning hope that cheers our land!
Since Gallia's fire, intent on cares of state,
Sublimely good, magnanimously great!
Protector of the rights of human kind,
Weigh'd the dread contest in his royal mind,
And bade his fleets o'er the broad ocean fly,
To succour realms beneath another sky!
Since his blest troops, in happiest toils allied,
Have fought, have bled, have conquer'd by your side:
The mingled stream, in the same trench that flow'd,
Cements the nations by their heroes' blood.
Yet still, Columbians, see what choice remains, Ignoble bondage and inglorious chains,,
Or all the joys which liberty can give,
For which you dare to die, or wish to live.
On the drawn sword your country's fate depends:
Your wives, your children, parents, brothers, friends,
With all the tender charities of life,
Hang on the issue of the arduous strife.
To bolder deeds, and vict'ry's fierce delights,
Your country calls, and heav'n itself invites.
Charm'd by their potent voice, let virtue's flame,
The sense of honour, and the fear of shame,
The thirst of praise, and freedom's envied cause,
The smiles of heroes, and the world's applause,
Impel each breast, in glory's dread career,
Firm as your rock-rais'd hills, to persevere.
Now the sixth year of independence smiles, The glorious meed of all our warlike toils; Auspicious pow'r, with thy broad flag unfurl'd, Shed thy stern influence on our western world! With thy congenial flame our hearts inspire,
With manly patience and heroic fire,
The rudest shock of fortune's storm to bear:
Each ill to suffer; every death to dare;
To rush undaunted in th' advent'rous van,
And meet the Britons, man oppos'd to man;
With surer aim repel their barb'rous rage;
Shield the poor orphan, and the white-hair'd sage ;
Cheers the faint heart, and nerves the feeble hand;
This sacred hope, that points beyond the span
Which bounds this transitory life of man,
Where glory lures us with her bright renown,
The hero's triumph, and the patriot's crown;
The fair reward to suff'ring virtue giv❜n,
Pure robes of bliss, and starry thrones in heav'n.
Chang'd are the scenes; now fairer prospects rise, And brighter suns begin to gild our skies.
Th' exhausted foe, his last poor effort try'd,
Sees nought remain, save impotence and pride:
His golden dreams of fancied conquest o'er,
(And Gallia thund'ring round his native shore,
Iberia aiding with Potosi's mines,
While brave Batavia in the conflict joins)
Reluctant turns, and, deep involv'd in woes,
In other climes prepares for other foes.
Anon, the horrid sounds of war shall cease,
And all the western world be hush'd in peace :
The martial clarion shall be heard no more,
Nor the loud cannon's desolating roar:
No more our heroes pour the purple flood,
No corse be seen with garments roll'd in blood;
No shivering wretch shall roam without a shed;
No pining orphans raise their cry for bread;
No tender mother shriek at dreams of woe,
Start from her sleep, and see the midnight foe;
The lovely virgin, and the hoary sire,
No more behold the village flame aspire,
While the base spoiler, from a father's arms,
Plucks the fair flower, and riots on its charms.
E'en now, from half the threaten'd horrors freed,
See from our shores the less'ning sails recede :
See the red flags, that to the wind unfurl'd,
Wav'd in proud triumph round the vanquish'd world,
Inglorious fly; and see their haggard crew,
Despair, rage, shame, and infamy pursue.
Hail, heav'n-born Peace! thy grateful blessings pour
On this glad land, and round the peopled shore:
Thine are the joys that gild the happy scene,
Propitious days, and festive nights serene;
With thee gay Pleasure frolics o'er the plain,
And smiling Plenty leads thy prosp'rous train.
Then oh, my friends! the task of glory done,
Th' immortal prize by your bold efforts won;
Your country's saviours, by her voice confess'd,
While unborn ages rise and call you blest-
Then let us go where happier climes invite,
To midland seas, and regions of delight;
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