Verse > Anthologies > William McCarty, ed. > The American National Song Book
William McCarty, comp.  The American National Song Book.  1842.
An Ode: ‘While around the festive board’
By Samuel Woodworth (1784–1842)
Written for the Baltimore Typographical Society

Tune—“The Dauphin”

WHILE around the festive board
  The sons of Freedom throng,
And bid her praises rise,
  In patriotic song:
Ye brethren of our heaven-born art,        5
  Unite to hail the day,
Let joy expand each patriot heart,
  Each tongue assist the lay.
    Arise, ’tis Freedom’s natal morn;
      Ye sons of FAUST, arise,        10
    Forever swear to guard
      The dearly-purchased prize.
Mankind in darkness groped
  Their blind and erring way,
Deep veil’d in Gothic shades,        15
  With scarce a glimpse of day,
Till Faust arose, and bid our art
  Illume their darken’d mind;
Then independence fired the heart
  Which knowledge had refined.
        Arise, &c.
But long they sought in vain
  To win the heavenly prize:
Oppression’s lengthen’d reign
  Their ardent wish denies.
Till o’er our hard-earn’d western soil,        25
  He dared his sceptre wield;
’Twas then our sires, with blood and toil,
  Gain’d freedom and the field.
        Arise, &c.
Then smiling peace was ours,
  And every earthly bliss,        30
Till Europe’s treacherous powers
  Betray’d us with a kiss.
But, like our fathers, now we’ll rise,
  Our birthright to maintain:
Swear by the God of earth and skies,        35
  No tyrant here shall reign.
        Arise, &c.
Then let the foe advance;
  The Press shall still inspire,
To wield the missive lance,
  Or guide the vengeful fire:        40
And here we swear, when Freedom calls,
  We’ll not refuse to die;
The foe shall see, beneath our balls,
  His columns fall in pie.
        Arise, &c.
Long e’er a foreign flag        45
  O’ertops Columbia’s stripes,
We’ll forge our sticks to arms,
  To balls convert our types.
We’ll never flinch, but give them chase,
  Display our mystic STARS,        50
Our eagle still shall hold his place,
  And hurl the shafts of Mars.
        Arise, &c.
Who threats with foreign rule,
  Our shooting-sticks defy;
We’ll have a brush with all,        55
  Before we take the lie.
We’ll hush the English lion’s roar,
  French Cannon we’ll compose,
The form of tyranny beat o’er,
  And hot press all our foes.
        Arise, &c.
Long may we keep the morn
  Which gave our nation birth!
And when, at length, our form
  Is finish’d here on earth,
Our types in case, correctly laid,        65
  A face and body pure,
Which, set in heaven, shall stand display’d,
  Forever to endure.
    Then hail fair Freedom’s natal morn,
      Let sounding pæans rise,        70
    To-day for us was born
      The goddess of the skies.

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