PRO PATRIÆ
She lies in dust, deploring her disgrace,
Our native land—the mother of the Free!
Yes! she has bowed her head, and veiled her face,
Where none can comfort, none the grief should see;
She to whose will once Kings were glad to bow,
A mock for all the earth, now lieth low.
Our native land—the mother of the Free!
Yes! she has bowed her head, and veiled her face,
Where none can comfort, none the grief should see;
She to whose will once Kings were glad to bow,
A mock for all the earth, now lieth low.
Is there a heart to know this and not break?
Is there no arm that dare avenge her shame?
Has she no sons that for her holy sake
Will wipe the damning spot from off her name?
And tell the world she is not sunk so low
As lying tongues and hollow hearts would show.
Is there no arm that dare avenge her shame?
Has she no sons that for her holy sake
Will wipe the damning spot from off her name?
And tell the world she is not sunk so low
As lying tongues and hollow hearts would show.
Are we, then, steeped so far in lust of gold,
That we can tamely kiss the hand that binds?
Degenerate sons of those brave hearts of old
That would not beat, or beat as free as winds.
Are ease and comfort so very much,
That we should hold them with so tight a clutch?
That we can tamely kiss the hand that binds?
Degenerate sons of those brave hearts of old
That would not beat, or beat as free as winds.
Are ease and comfort so very much,
That we should hold them with so tight a clutch?
Steeped in humiliations to the lips
By fools at home, and fanatics abroad,
Our country's star is near a dread eclipse,
And we smile on, and helplessly do nod.
We have been taught in blood the sword's abuse,
And tyrants now should learn of us its use.
By fools at home, and fanatics abroad,
Our country's star is near a dread eclipse,
And we smile on, and helplessly do nod.
We have been taught in blood the sword's abuse,
And tyrants now should learn of us its use.
Must we, then, con through years of chains and shame
That honor is a better thing than joy?
That gold can never gild a tarnished name?
That a firm will can even hell destroy?
That swords have better uses, or as good
As letting forth a Southern brother's blood?
That honor is a better thing than joy?
That gold can never gild a tarnished name?
That a firm will can even hell destroy?
That swords have better uses, or as good
As letting forth a Southern brother's blood?
I will not think it; we are freemen's sons;
We cannot shame our fathers in their graves;
While yet one drop of their life-current runs
It will not let us tamely yield, as slaves,
To those who now with parricidal hand
Stab at the very heart of our dear land.
We cannot shame our fathers in their graves;
While yet one drop of their life-current runs
It will not let us tamely yield, as slaves,
To those who now with parricidal hand
Stab at the very heart of our dear land.
Yes—we shall free her in a little while,
And she again shall crown herself a queen,
Wielding her mighty sceptre with a smile,
By consciousness of power made serene;
And, gathering up her royal robes, she may
Move on in triumph down her Appian way.
And she again shall crown herself a queen,
Wielding her mighty sceptre with a smile,
By consciousness of power made serene;
And, gathering up her royal robes, she may
Move on in triumph down her Appian way.