My country,—at the sound of that dear name
The wanderer's heart awakens, nerved and bold
Before him stand the deeds and days of old,
The tombs of ages, and the rolls of fame
Sculptured on columns, where the living flame
Of Freedom lights anew its fading ray,
And glows in emulation of that day,
When on their foes they stamped the brand of shame:
Yes, at the thought of these bright trophies leaps
The spirit in his bosom, and he turns
His longing eye to where his parent sleeps,
And high on rocks his country's beacon burns;
And though the world be gayest, and sweet forms
Of love and beauty call him, he would fly,
And walk delighted in her mountain storms,
And man his soul with valor at her cry,
And in the fiercest shock of battle die.
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