Again at this altar that binds us,
The faith of the past we’ll renew,—
Two hundred years fading behind us,
A thousand years rising to view.
And as long as the fair constellations
Shall lighten the heavens with gold,
Shall the banner of right be the Nation's
And ever for right be unrolled.
SWORD OF BUNKER HILL.
He lay upon his dying bed,
His eyes were growing dim,
When with a feeble voice he called
His weeping son to him.
“Weep not. my boy,” the veteran said,
“I bow to heaven’s high will.
But quickly from yon antlers bring
The Sword of Bunker Hill.”
The sword was brought; the soldier’s eyes
Lit with a sudden flame.
And as he grasped the ancient blade.
He murmured Warren’s name,
Then said: ”My boy, I leave you gold.
But what is better still,
I leave you, mark me, mark me now.
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
“’Twas on that dread immortal day
We dared the British band,
A captain raised this sword on me,
I tore it from his hand.
And as the awful battle raged,
It lighted freedom’s will;
For, boy, the God of freedom blessed
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
“O keep the sword, and should the foe
Again invade our land.
My soul will shout from heaven to see
It flame in your right hand;
For ’twill be double sacrilege
If where sunk tyrant—ill
Power dare to strike Man’s rights won by
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
’O keep the sword; you know what’s in
The handle’s hollow there:
It shrines, will always shrine, that lock
Of Washington’s own hair.
The terror of oppression's here:
Despots! your own graves fill.
O’er Vernon’s gift God’s seal is on
The Sword of Bunker Hill.“
“O keep the sword”—his accents broke;
A smile, and he was dead—
But his wrinkled hands still grasped the blade
Upon that dying bed.
The son remains, the sword remains.
Its glory growing still.
And fifty millions bless the sire
And sword of Bunker Hill.
