O DARK is the tempest of peril and fear, | |
| O’ershadowing the torrent, resistless descending | |
| From the wilds of the north, in its ruthless career, | |
| The harvest and herd from the ravaged fields rending. | |
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| But the Sabbath-day dawns—in its hallow’d light, | 5 |
| Behold the bright arms on yon eminence gleaming, | |
| Where the death-threatening battery frowns from the height, | |
| And broadly the banner to the light winds is streaming. | |
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| They come from their ships, on the dark ocean wave, | |
| With the conquering sword, at the victor’s decree, | 10 |
| From the angel-like task of unfettering the slave, | |
| To the fiend-like commission of crushing the free. | |
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| With the bright smile of triumph they bend to the bay | |
| Their looks—where their pendants exultingly stream, | |
| And hail the proud hour, ere the close of the day, | 15 |
| When the cross o’er the stars shall victoriously beam. 1 | |
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| With the proud smile of scorn, to the land then they turn, | |
| Where the star-spangled banner their foemen display, | |
| And certain of success, impatiently burn | |
| To sweep the weak barriers full quickly away. | 20 |
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| Yes! smile ye in triumph! the warrior who stands | |
| On that deck, where he swears or to conquer or die, | |
| In the heart of each comrade a hero commands, | |
| With their swords in their grasp, while their trust is on high. | |
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| Or recks he thy boasting, who scorning despair, | 25 |
| Gives the signal of fight, where his veterans repose: | |
| “There’s life for your valour, but death for your fear, | |
| We triumph as victors, or sink with our foes!” 2 | |
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| The conflict is past on the lake and the plain, | |
| And where does the banner of Britain now wave? | 30 |
| ’Tis beneath the proud stars, where the heaps of the slain | |
| To the victors a path for its downfall scarce gave. | |
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| And gone is the host of the conquering sword? | |
| They fled at that sight, with a pang of dismay, | |
| With the spirit of panic all scattered abroad, | 35 |
| All melted like snow from the face of the day. | |
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| ’Tis the victory of God! then presume not to wreathe | |
| Round the brow of a mortal the badge of his praise; | |
| But lowly in heart all thy gratitude breathe, | |
| For His arm of defence, in our perilous ways. | 40 |
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| But honour the warriors who wielded His sword, | |
| As Gideon of old, who the spoiler o’erthrew, | |
| When he gave, with the force of his heart-stirring word, | |
| The force of a host to the arm of a few. | |
