Classic Poem

Bird of the proud imperial eye,
Thou hoary playmate of old kings, —
Lord of the van, when victory's cry
Over the fainting battle rings, —
Sluggishly art thou sailing by,
With drooping crest and flagging wings;
How glorious was thy bursting ire!
But where is now that glance of fire?

Back to the bourne of the frozen North, —
With shatter'd plumage rent and riven,
And eye all quenched, whose flame glared forth,
Like the red glittering bolt of Heaven.
Storm-courier! What hath hushed so still
That wild, bleak tempest's icy pinions,
Which made the hearts of tyrants chill
On the gray thrones of old dominions?
Is this the bird, whose scream should sound
To startle earth's reluctant nations,
Circling the world's broad limits round,
Like a great earthquake's undulations?
The bird, whose glance should blaze as far
As the red north's bright coruscations, —
Whose lightning eye should kindle war
In every brave heart's warm pulsations?
Back to the bourne of the frozen North, —
For the hearts thou leddest to battle forth,
Oh, they were faint and cold, and their hands
Weak, as becomes a despot's bands!
Brave bird, they were all unworthy thee, —
All unworthy the strife of the free!

Yet shrink not Greece, from that barbarian horde,
What though no christian chivalry advance, —
No Lion-heart uplift his mighty sword,
Nor good St. Louis couch th' unerring lance; —
Yet shrink not, mother of the Lyre of songs,
The word is, onward! For the flight of time,
Which cannot blot the history of thy wrongs,
Hath writ no story in her burning rhyme,
Like the brave annals of a nation's birth,
When, by their sires, their children and their God,
Oath-bound to victory, they issue forth,
And stand all free, or sleep on glory's sod!