Say, shall we hear unmoved, that harrowing groan?
With frigid coldness, mark each rising moan?
Forbid it heaven, that e'er the captive's sigh,
Should ask for aid, and no redemption nigh.
Who will not rise, a free born son to save,
From Spanish chains, from slavery's living grave?
Is there a heart of adamant, so formed,
Its icy core to pity ne'er was warmed?
That heart will soften at the victim's pain,
That soul will rouse against relentless Spain.
All, all will rise, for vengeance is not far,
And gentle peace shall yield to righteous war;
From short repose, the avenging sword will leap,
And prove to FERD'NAND, justice doth not sleep;
Its flaming point will hostile shores illume,
And light the tyrant to his final doom;
Nor will the goddess bless Hesperia's lands,
"Till Spanish legions own our conquering bands,
Then shall the olive bloom on freedom's shore;
Swords plow the earth, and war be heard no more;
Accursed contention with its horrors cease,
For rightful war, ensures a lasting Peace.
THE awful height of Bunker's brow,
To wondering ages still shall tell
What valour stemmed the rushing foe,
When cannons pealed a WARREN's knell.
There is a spot, 'tis hallowed ground,
Where lowly rests the warrior's head;
The tall grass, mournful, waves around;
It waves o'er PUTNAM's honoured bed.
The traveller here will oft repair,
To give the generous meed of wo;
And by the sainted spirit swear,
To guard his fame from every foe.
And though with envy, scoffers burn,
That fame will live in deathless bloom;
The laurel deck the hero's urn,
The night-shade mark his slanderer's tomb,
O come from a world, where sorrow and gloom,
Chastise the allurements of joy;
A pathway bedimmed, with no rays to illume,
Save the meteor that shines to destroy;
Where the thoughtless have revelled, when mirth had no charm,
Where the wounded have wept, but still needed the balm.
O come from a world, where the landscape is chill,
Or deceitfully blossoming fair,
The garden gives promise of bright flowers, still
The night-shade luxuriates there;
That sky, now serene, blushing lovely and clear,
O heed not its beauty, the storm-cloud is near.
O come from a world, where the cup of delight
Now sparkles and foams at the brim;
For the laurels that wreath it, reflection shall blight,
Its lustre, repentance shall dim;
The lips, that convivial, have pledged thee the bowl, Shall blanch with confusion when fear rives the soul.
O come from a world, where they that beguile
Will lead thee to peril and fears;
For the heart that, confiding, hath welcomed its smile,
Hath found it the prelude to tears:
Come then, there's a path by the reckless untrod;
O come, weary wanderer, it leads to thy God.
O THOU that reign'st with power on high,
From whom alone our blessings flow;
Whose kind protecting care is nigh,
To saints above, and men below,
To thee, our grateful evening song,
We now with mingled voices raise;
To thee alone, doth well belong
The tuneful notes of sacred praise.
We bless thee that thy watchful care
Hath kept our steps another day;
That we thy numerous mercies share,
That we the social tribute pay.
Each fault, thy spotless eye hath seen:
Wilt thou, for JESUS' sake forgive;
In his atonement wash us clean,
And let the contrite sinner live.
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