William McCarty, comp. The American National Song Book. 1842.
The Triumphs of LibertyEbenezer Baily (1795–1839)
S
Whether thy steps are in the sunny vale,
Where Peace and Happiness reside
With Innocence and thee, or glide
To caverns deep, and vestal fountains,
Mid the stern solitude of mountains,
Where airy voices still prolong,
From cliff to cliff, thy jocund song.
We woo thy presence—thou wilt smile upon
The full heart’s tribute to thy favourite son,
Who held communion with thee, and unfurl’d
In light, thy sacred charter to the world.
Whose angel smile can make the desert shine;
For thou hast left thy mountain’s brow,
And art with men no stranger now.
Where’er thy joyous train is seen
Disporting with the merry hours,
Nature laughs out, in brighter green,
And wreathes her brow with fairy flowers:
Pleasure waves her rosy wand,
Plenty opens wide her hand—
On Rapture’s wings,
To heaven the choral anthem springs,
And all around, above, below,
Exult and mingle, as they glow,
In such harmonious ecstasies as play’d,
When earth was new, in Eden’s light and shade.
Thy steps appear—thy power is known—
Hark! the trump! its thrilling sound
Echoes on every wind,
And man awakes, for ages bound
In leaden lethargy of mind:
He wakes to life!—earth’s teeming plains
Rejoice in his control;
He wakes to strength! and bursts the chains
Whose rust was in his soul:
He wakes to liberty, and walks abroad
All disenthrall’d: the image of his God.
The battle-fires of Freedom glow!
Where triumph hails the children of the sun
Beneath the banner of their Washington.
Go on, victorious Bolivar!
O! fail not, faint not, in the war
Waged for the liberty of nations!
Go on, resistless as the earthquake’s shock,
When all your everlasting mountains rock
Upon their deep foundations.
Where infant genius first awoke
To arts and arms, and godlike story,
Wept for her fallen sons in bondage long—
She weeps no more—those sons have broke
Their fetters—spurn the slavish yoke,
And emulate their fathers’ glory.
The crescent wanes before the car
Of Liberty’s ascending star,
And Freedom’s banners wave upon
The ruins of the Parthenon;
The clash of arms rings in the air,
As erst it rung at Marathon.
Let songs of triumph echo there:
Be free, ye Greeks! or, failing, die
In the last trench of liberty.
Ye hail the name of Washington: pursue
The path of glory he has mark’d for you.
But should your recreant limbs submit once more
To hug the soil your fathers ruled before
Like gods on earth—if o’er their hallowed graves
Again their craven sons shall creep as slaves,
When shall another Byron sing and bleed
For you? O, when for you another Webster plead!
Whose sacrilegious leagues have twined
Oppression’s links around your states,
Say, do ye idly hope to bind
The fearless heart and thinking mind?
When ye can hush the tempest of the deep—
Make the volcano in its cavern sleep,
Or stop the hymning spheres, ye may control,
With sceptred hand, the mighty march of soul.
Above the prostrate world to tower,
And lord it all alone?
What god, what fiend, has e’er decreed
That one shall reign while millions bleed
To prop the tyrant’s throne?
Gaze on the ocean ye would sway:
If, from his tranquil breast, the day
Shine out in beams as bright and fair
As if the heavens were resting there,
Ye, in its mirror-surface, may
See that ye are but men;
But should the angry storm-winds pour
Its chainless surges to the shore,
Like Canute, ye may then
A fearful lesson learn: ye ne’er would know
The weakness of a tyrant’s power—how low
His pride is brought, when, like that troubled sea,
Men rise in chainless might, determined to be free.
Crush’d by Oppression’s iron heel—
They yet will rise—in such a change as sweeps
The face of Nature, when the lightning leaps
From the dark cloud of night;
While Heaven’s eternal pillars reel afar,
As o’er them rolls the Thunderer’s flaming car—
And, in the majesty and might
That freedom gives, my country, follow thee,
In thy career of strength and glorious liberty.
A grateful tribute on thy natal hour,
Who strike the lyre to Liberty, and twine
Wreaths for her triumphs—for they all are thine—
Woo’d by thy virtues to the haunts of men,
From mountain precipice, and rugged glen,
She bade thee vindicate the rights of man,
And in her peerless march ’twas thine to lead the van.
To point the stranger where the hero lies,
He sleeps in glory. To his humble tomb—
The shrine of Freedom—pious pilgrims come
To pay the heartfelt homage, and to share
The sacred influence that reposes there.
Say, ye blest spirits of the good and brave,
Were tears of holier feeling ever shed
On the proud marble of the regal dead,
Than gush’d at Vernon’s rude and lonely grave,
When, from your starry thrones, ye saw the son
He loved and honour’d, weep for Washington.
Earth’s gorgeous pageants pass away:
Its temples, arches, monuments, must fall;
For Time’s oblivious hand is on them all.
The proudest kings will end their toil
To slumber with the humble dead:
Earth’s conquerors mingle with the soil
That groan’d beneath their iron tread,
And all the trophies of their power and guilt
Sink to oblivion with the blood they spilt.
But still the everlasting voice of Fame
Shall swell, in anthems, to the patriot’s name,
Who toil’d—who lived—to bless mankind, and hurl’d
Oppression from the throne,
Where long she sway’d, remorseless and alone,
Her scorpion sceptre o’er a shrinking world.
And though no sculptured marble guards his dust,
Nor mouldering urn receives the hallow’d trust,
For him a prouder mausoleum towers,
That Time but strengthens with his storms and showers—
The land he saved, the empire of the free—
Thy broad and steadfast throne, triumphant Liberty!