| |
| NO Spartan tube, no Attic shell, | |
| No lyre Æolian I awake; | |
| ’Tis liberty’s bold note I swell, | |
| Thy harp, Columbia, let me take! | |
| See gathering thousands, while I sing, | 5 |
| A broken chain exulting bring, | |
| And dash it in a tyrant’s face, | |
| And dare him to his very beard, | |
| And tell him he no more is feared— | |
| No more the despot of Columbia’s race! | 10 |
| A tyrant’s proudest insults brav’d, | |
| They shout—a People freed! They hail an Empire saved. | |
| |
| Where is man’s god-like form? | |
| Where is that brow erect and bold— | |
| That eye that can unmov’d behold | 15 |
| The wildest rage, the loudest storm | |
| That e’er created fury dared to raise? | |
| Avaunt! thou caitiff, servile, base, | |
| That tremblest at a despot’s nod, | |
| Yet, crouching under the iron rod, | 20 |
| Canst laud the hand that struck th’ insulting blow! | |
| Art thou of man’s Imperial line? | |
| Dost boast that countenance divine? | |
| Each skulking feature answers, No! | |
| But come, ye sons of Liberty, | 25 |
| Columbia’s offspring, brave as free, | |
| In danger’s hour still flaming in the van, | |
| Ye know, and dare maintain, the Royalty of Man! | |
| |
| Alfred! on thy starry throne, | |
| Surrounded by the tuneful choir, | 30 |
| The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre, | |
| And rous’d the freeborn Briton’s soul of fire, | |
| No more thy England own! | |
| Dare injured nations form the great design, | |
| To make detested tyrants bleed? | 35 |
| Thy England execrates the glorious deed! | |
| Beneath her hostile banners waving, | |
| Every pang of honour braving, | |
| England in thunder calls, “The tyrant’s cause is mine!” | |
| That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice | 40 |
| And hell, thro’ all her confines, raise the exulting voice, | |
| That hour which saw the generous English name | |
| Linkt with such damned deeds of everlasting shame! | |
| |
| Thee, Caledonia! thy wild heaths among, | |
| Fam’d for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song, | 45 |
| To thee I turn with swimming eyes; | |
| Where is that soul of Freedom fled? | |
| Immingled with the mighty dead, | |
| Beneath that hallow’d turf where Wallace lies | |
| Hear it not, WALLACE! in thy bed of death. | 50 |
| Ye babbling winds! in silence sweep, | |
| Disturb not ye the hero’s sleep, | |
| Nor give the coward secret breath! | |
| Is this the ancient Caledonian form, | |
| Firm as the rock, resistless as the storm? | 55 |
| Show me that eye which shot immortal hate, | |
| Blasting the despot’s proudest bearing; | |
| Show me that arm which, nerv’d with thundering fate, | |
| Crush’d Usurpation’s boldest daring!— | |
| Dark-quench’d as yonder sinking star, | 60 |
| No more that glance lightens afar; | |
| That palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of war. | |
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