Classic Poem

My countrymen! why languish
Like outcasts of the earth,
And drown in tears of anguish
The glory of your birth?
Ye were a freeborn people,
And heroes were your race:
The dead — they are our freemen —
The living — our disgrace.

You bend beneath your fetters,
You fear your foes to spurn:
March! when you meet your betters
'Tis time enough to turn.
Undam the tide of freedom!
Your hearts its godlike source;
Faith, Honour, Right, and Glory
The currents of its course.

And were it death awaits ye,
On! Death is liberty.
Then quails the power that hates ye,
When freemen dare to die
We call him not a Roman,
Who brooks to be a slave: —
An alien to his country,
And a mockery to the brave.

Down with the cup, untasted!
Its draught is not for thee:
Its generous strength were wasted
On all but on the free —
Turn from the altar, bondsman!
Nor touch a Roman bride
What? Wouldst thou bear her blushing
For thee, at thine own side!

Back from the church-door, Craven;
The great dead sleep beneath,
And liberty is graven
On every sculptured wreath!
For whom shall lips of beauty,
And history's tablets be?
For whom Heaven's crown of glory?
For the Free! the Free! the Free!