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| FROM realms of bondage, and a tyrant’s reign, | |
| Our godlike fathers bore no slavish chain. | |
| To Pharaoh’s face the inspired patriarchs stood, | |
| To seal their virtue, with a martyr’s blood: | |
| But lives so precious, such a sacred seed, | 5 |
| The source of empires, heaven’s high will decreed; | |
| He snatch’d the saints from Pharaoh’s impious hand, | |
| And bid his chosen seek this distant land: | |
| Thus to these climes the illustrious exiles sped, | |
| ’T was freedom prompted, and the Godhead led. | 10 |
| Eternal woods the virgin soil defaced, | |
| A dreary desert, and a howling waste; | |
| The haunt of tribes no pity taught to spare, | |
| And they opposed them with remorseless war, | |
| But heaven’s right arm led forth the faithful train, | 15 |
| The guardian Godhead swept the insidious plain, | |
| Till the scour’d thicket amicable stood, | |
| Nor dastard ambush trench’d the dusky wood: | |
| Our sires then earn’d no more precarious bread, | |
| Nor ’midst alarms their frugal meals were spread. | 20 |
| Fair boding hopes inured their hands to toil, | |
| And patriot virtue nursed the thriving soil, | |
| Nor scarce two ages have their periods run, | |
| Since o’er their culture smiled the genial sun; | |
| And now what states extend their fair domains, | 25 |
| O’er fleecy mountains, and luxuriant plains! | |
| Where happy millions their own fields possess, | |
| No tyrant awes them, and no lords oppress; | |
| The hand of rule, divine discretion guides, | |
| And white-robed virtue o’er her path presides, | 30 |
| Each policed order venerates the laws, | |
| And each, ingenuous, speaks in freedom’s cause; | |
| Not Spartan spirit, nor the Roman name, | |
| The patriot’s pride, shall rival these in fame; | |
| Here all the sweets that social life can know, | 35 |
| From the full fount of civil sapience flow; | |
| Here golden Ceres clothes th’ autumnal plain, | |
| And art’s fair empress holds her new domain; | |
| Here angel Science spreads her lucid wing, | |
| And hark, how sweet the new-born muses sing; | 40 |
| Here generous Commerce spreads her liberal hand, | |
| And scatters foreign blessings round the land. | |
| Shall meagre mammon, or proud lust of sway, | |
| Reverse these scenes—will heaven permit the day? | |
| Shall in this era all our hopes expire, | 45 |
| And weeping freedom from her fanes retire? | |
| Here shall the tyrant still our peace pursue, | |
| From the pain’d eyebrow drink the vital dew? | |
| Not nature’s barrier wards our father’s foe, | |
| Seas roll in vain, and boundless oceans flow. | 50 |
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| Stay, Pharaoh, stay, that impious hand forbear, | |
| Nor tempt the genius of our souls too far; | |
| How oft, ungracious! in thy thankless stead, | |
| ’Mid scenes of death, our generous youth have bled; | |
| When the proud Gaul thy mightiest powers repell’d, | 55 |
| And drove your legions trembling from the field, | |
| We rent the laurel from the victor’s brow, | |
| And round your temples taught the wreath to grow, | |
| Say, when thy slaughter’d bands the desert dyed, | |
| Where lone Ohio rolls her gloomy tide, | 60 |
| Whose dreary banks their wasting bones inshrine, | |
| What arm avenged them?—thankless! was it thine? | |
| But generous valor scorns a boasting word, | |
| And conscious virtue reaps her own reward, | |
| Yet conscious virtue bids thee now to speak, | 65 |
| Though guilty blushes kindle o’er thy cheek: | |
| If wasting wars, and painful toils at length, | |
| Had drain’d our veins, and wither’d all our strength, | |
| How couldst thou, cruel, form the vile design, | |
| And round our necks the wreath of bondage twine! | 70 |
| And if some lingering spirit roused to strife, | |
| Bid ruffian murder drink the dregs of life? | |
| Shall future ages e’er forget the deed? | |
| And shall n’t for this imperious Britain bleed? | |
| When comes the period heaven predestines must, | 75 |
| When Europe’s glories shall be whelm’d in dust, | |
| When our proud fleets the naval wreath shall wear, | |
| And o’er her empires hurl the bolts of war, | |
| Unnerved by fate, the boldest heart shall fail, | |
| And ’mid their guards auxiliar kings grow pale; | 80 |
| In vain shall Britain lift her suppliant eye, | |
| An alien’d offspring feels no filial tie, | |
| Her tears in vain shall bathe the soldier’s feet, | |
| Remember, ingrate, Boston’s crimson’d street; | |
| Whole hecatombs of lives the deed shall pay, | 85 |
| And purge the murders of that guilty day. | |
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| But why to future periods look so far, | |
| What force e’er faced us, that we fear’d to dare? | |
| Then, canst thou think, e’en on this early day, | |
| Proud force shall bend us to a tyrant’s sway? | 90 |
| A foreign foe opposed our sword in vain, | |
| And thine own troops we ’ve rallied on the plain, | |
| If then our lives thy lawless sword invade, | |
| Think’st thou, enslaved, we ’d kiss the pointed blade? | |
| Nay, let experience speak—be this the test, | 95 |
| ’T is from experience that we reason best. | |
| When first thy mandate show’d the shameless plan, | |
| To rank our race beneath the class of man, | |
| Low as the brute to sink the human line, | |
| Our toil our portion, and the harvest thine, | 100 |
| Modest but firm, we plead the sacred cause, | |
| On nature based, and sanction’d by the laws; | |
| But your deaf ear the conscious plea denied, | |
| Some demon counsel’d—and the sword replied; | |
| Your navy then our haven cover’d o’er, | 105 |
| And arm’d battalions trespass’d on our shore. | |
| Through the prime streets, they march’d in war’s array, | |
| At noon’s full blaze, and in the face of day: | |
| With dumb contempt we pass’d the servile show, | |
| While scorn’s proud spirit scowl’d on every brow; | 110 |
| Day after day successive wrongs we bore, | |
| Till patience, wearied, could support no more, | |
| Till slaughter’d lives our native streets profaned, | |
| And thy slave’s hand our hallow’d crimson stain’d, | |
| No sudden rage the ruffian soldier tore, | 115 |
| Or swam the pavement with his vital gore. | |
| Deliberate thought did all our souls compose, | |
| Till veil’d in glooms the lowery morning rose; | |
| No mob then furious urged the impassion’d fray, | |
| Nor clamorous tumult dinn’d the solemn day. | 120 |
| In full convene the city senate sate, | |
| Our fathers’ spirit ruled the firm debate;— | |
| The freeborn soul no reptile tyrant checks, | |
| ’T is heaven dictates when the people speaks; | |
| Loud from their tongues the awful mandate broke, | 125 |
| And thus inspired, the sacred senate spoke; | |
| “Ye miscreant troops, begone! Our presence fly, | |
| Stay, if ye dare, but if ye dare, ye die!” | |
| “Ah! too severe,” the fearful chief replies, | |
| “Permit one half—the other instant flies.”— | 130 |
| “No parle, avaunt, or by our fathers’ shades, | |
| Your reeking lives shall glut our vengeful blades, | |
| Ere morning’s light begone,—or else we swear, | |
| Each slaughter’d corse shall feed the birds of air!” | |
| Ere morning’s light had streak’d the skies with red, | 135 |
| The chieftain yielded, and the soldier fled. | |
| ’T is thus experience speaks—the test forbear, | |
| Nor show these states your feeble front of war, | |
| But still your navies lord it o’er the main, | |
| Their keels are natives of our oaken plain; | 140 |
| E’en the proud mast that bears your flag on high, | |
| Grew on our soil, and ripen’d in our sky: | |
| “Know then thyself, presume not us to scan,” | |
| Your power precarious, and your isle a span. | |
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| Yet could our wrongs in just oblivion sleep, | 145 |
| And on each neck revived affection weep, | |
| The brave are generous, and the good forgive, | |
| Then say you ’ve wrong’d us, and our parent live; | |
| But face not fate, oppose not heaven’s decree, | |
| Let not that curse, our mother, light on thee. | 150 |
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