Classic Poem

The only surviving General of the Revolution.

W E'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 Runny Mead 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 lies a martyred 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 have set,
With glory shall thy brow be bound;
With glory shall thy head be crowned;
With glory, starlike, cinctured yet!
For earth, and air, and sky, and sea,
Shall yield a glorious wreath to thee.