So walked our fathers, when the English braves

So walked our fathers, when the English braves,
Who deemed they owned the land our fathers tilled,
Flush with red jackets, marched along the bank
Of this slow River creeping to the sea.
And said, doubt not, because the tide was slow,
The rustics on its banks had hearts as slow.
Then rang their shot and echoed through the Manse,
Scaring the red-wing, but that noon's brave hour, —
That little hour America endowed
With shores that bound Pacifics, wilds that touch
Base of the Rocky hills and prairies far
Where the fierce bison stalks, the Pawnee's game.
They came up from their ploughs; they fired their guns;
Crushed out the host of England, yet tame slaves,
And while grave queens and lords still on their necks
Weigh an usurping heel, our fathers' sons
May worship God as they list, and choose their best
Or worst to govern, as they will. Brave shot!
That echoes far across the wide St. Lawrence,
And India's depth of jungle, tigers' lair,
And fitfully o'er Westminster and Scotland's hills,
Though many a shot has scared the red-wing since,
Time and the men made of that ringing gun
The knell of empire, Freedom's best salute!
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