New England
by
James Gates Percival (1795-1856) |
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|
HAIL to the land whereon we tread,
Our fondest boast!
The sepulchre of mighty dead,
The truest hearts that ever
bled,
Who sleep on glory's brightest bed,
A fearless
host:
No slave is here;�our unchained feet
Walk
freely, as the waves that beat
Our coast.
Our
fathers crossed the ocean's wave
To seek this shore;
They left behind the coward slave
To welter in his living
grave;
With hearts unbent, high, steady, brave,
They
sternly bore
Such toils as meaner souls had quelled;
But souls like these, such toils impelled
To soar.
Hail to the morn when first they stood
On Bunker's
height!
And fearless stemmed the invading flood,
And
wrote our dearest rights in blood,
And mowed in ranks the
hireling brood,
In desperate fight:
O, 't was a proud,
exulting day,
For even our fallen fortunes lay
In
light.
There is no other land like thee,
No dearer
shore;
Thou art the shelter of the free;
The home, the
port of liberty
Thou hast been, and shalt ever be,
Till time is o'er.
Ere I forget to think upon
My land,
shall mother curse the son
She bore.
Thou art the
firm, unshaken rock,
On which we rest;
And rising from
thy hardy stock,
Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock,
And slavery's galling chains unlock,
And free the
oppressed:
All who the wreath of freedom twine
Beneath
the shadow of the vine
Are blessed.
We love thy
rude and rocky shore,
And here we stand:
Let foreign
navies hasten o'er,
And on our heads their fury pour,
And peal their cannon's loudest roar,
And storm our land:
They still shall find, our lives are given
To die for
home;�and leant on Heaven
Our hand. |
By James Gates Percival (1795-1856)
Listed August 13, 2013 |
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