English

FOR THE CELEBRATION AT BUNKER HILL

When our patriot fathers met
 In the dark and trying hour,
While the hand of Britain yet
 Pressed us with its weight of power,
Still they dared to tell the foe
 They were never made for slaves,—
Still they bade the nations know
 They were free as ocean's waves.

Yonder is the glorious hill
 Where their blood was nobly shed,—
Never with a firmer will
 Hearts of freemen beat and bled:
Shall the son forget his sire?
 No,—the admiring world shall see

Land of bards and heroes, hail!
Land of gods and godlike men,
Thine were hearts that could not quail, —
Earth was glorious then;
Thine were souls that dared be free,
Power, and Fame, and Liberty.

In thy best and brightest hour,
Thou wert like the sun in heaven;
Like the bow that spans the shower,
Thou to earth wert given:
Nations turned to thee and prayed
Thou wouldst fold them in thy shade.

One last, best effort now!
They shall not call us slaves, —
These iron necks shall never bow
To barter for a hated life,
But we will tell, in mortal strife,
What wrath a freeman braves:
A few short years, and we have known
The pride and joy — to live alone.

Our ancient land was free;
We washed its stains in blood:
Again the hymn of Liberty
Rose from the high Athenian shrine,
And virgin hands did often twine,
In the dark olive wood,
Their garlands for the youthful brow

Now bind in myrtle wreaths the avenging sword,
Like him who, at the Panathenian games,
With the bold heart no tyrant quells nor tames,
The bosom of the proud usurper gored.
We have a sterner foe to wake our wrath,—
Centuries of darkness have not dimmed us quite,—
We have the heart to feel, the hand to smite.
Wo to the wretch who dares to cross our path!
Our souls are gathered to the effort,—free
We have been, and we will be, and our sires
Shall look from heaven, and see us light the fires
On thy eternal altars, Liberty!

The west-sea's goddess in a crimson robe,
 Her temples circled with a coral wreath,
Waited her love, the lightener of earth's globe:
 The wanton wind did on her bosom breathe;
The nymphs of springs did hallow'd water pour;
Whate'er was cold help'd to make cool her bower.

And now the fiery horses of the Sun
 Were from their golden-flaming car untrac'd,
And all the glory of the day was done,
 Save here and there some light moon-clouds enchas'd,
A parti-colour'd canopy did spread
Over the Sun and Thetis' amorous bed.

By Sunium's rock I took my way
Along the blue Ã?gean sea,
That bright in golden sunset lay
Round the fair islands of the free:
A form of more than mortal mould
On the high rock sublimely rose;
The bosses of her buckler rolled
Like eyes of lightning on her foes:
I looked, — the blue-eyed goddess there
Stood glorious in the evening air.

She stood and raised her brazen lance,
That glittered like a meteor's beam;
Its light below in quivering dance
Flashed gayly on the ocean stream:

Towering rocks rending the sky asunder,
A trelliswork of trees barring the sun.
Into the shadowy gorge spring blossom is falling,
On the cold crags lingers the summer snow.

Lion-race in your true Nobility,
In fortitude, and magnanimity;
On whom reflecting, we must needs behold
New acted, many virtues that are old,
Ever though like a Lion fierce you be,
Live honour'd, let your true humanity;
Loud let your mercy lustre to your life,
Chuse Lion courage, against these, who briefe
Raging against you, would your hurt attempt;
And Lion -like have such in great contempt,
Nevertheles as Lyons will not kill
Fiercely, those who are prostrate to their will,
In pittie pat doning and supplying them;

All live and move to the poetic eye.
The winds have voices, and the stars of night
Are spirits throned in brightness, keeping watch
O'er earth and its inhabitants; the clouds,
That gird the sun with glory, are a train,
In panoply of gold around him set,
To guard his morning and his evening throne.
The elements are instruments, employed
By unseen hands, to work their sovereign will.
They do their bidding; — when the storm goes forth,
'T is but the thunderer's car, whereon he rides,
Aloft in triumph, o'er our prostrate heads.

There is a calm lagoon,
Hid in the bosom of a cypress grove;
Around deep shade, above
The tropic sun pours down the heat of noon.
The aged fathers of the forest wave
Their giant arms athwart the gloom below,
And as the winds in fitful breathing blow,
Their rush is like the tide's resounding flow,
Or sighs above a maiden's early grave.
The long moss hangs its hair,
In hoary festoons, on from tree to tree:
Lianas, twining there,
Ramble around the forest, wild and free;
They wave their bowering canopy,