Charles L. S. Jones

WHERE the wild wave, from ocean proudly swelling,

Mexico’s shores, wide stretching, with its billowy

Surge, in its sweep laves, and, with lashing foam, breaks,

Rough in its whiteness;

See where the flag of Freedom, with its light wreaths,

Floats on the wind, in buoyancy expanded

High o’er the walls of Bowyer’s dauntless breastwork,

Proudly and fearless.

Loud roll thy thunders, Albion; and thy missile

Boasts throng the air with lightning flash tremendous,

Whilst the dark wave, illuminated bright, shines

Sparkling with death-lights.

Shrink then that band of freemen, at the onslaught?

Palsy those arms that wield the unerring rifles?

Strikes chill the breast dread fear? or coward paleness

Whiten the blanch’d cheek?

No! round that flag, undaunted, midst the loud din,

Like their own shores, which mountain surges move not

Breasted and firm, and heedless of the war-shock,

Rallying they stand fast.

Look, Lawrence cries, brave comrades; how the foe proud

Quails at our charge, with recreant spirit flying:

Like Rome’s bold chief, he came and saw, but neither

Awed us, nor conquer’d.