OUR COUNTRY

AMERICA

Samuel Francis Smith

My country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty; Of thee I sing; Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrims' pride,— From every mountain side Let freedom ring.

My native country, thee, Land of the noble free,— Thy name I love; I love thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and templed hills; My heart with rapture thrills Like that above.

Let music swell the breeze, And ring from all the trees Sweet freedom's song; Let mortal tongues awake, Let all that breathe partake! Let rocks their silence break,— The sound prolong.

Our fathers' God,—to Thee, Author of liberty, To Thee we sing; Long may our land be bright With freedom's holy light; Protect us by thy might, Great God, our King.

MY NATIVE LAND

Sir Walter Scott

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, "This is my own, my native land!" Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there breathe, go mark him well; For him no Minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concent'red all in self. Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.

COLUMBUS

Joaquin Miller

Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores, Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: "Now must we pray, For lo! the very stars are gone, Brave Adm'r'l, speak; what shall I say?" "Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'"

"My men grow mutinous day by day; My men grow ghastly, wan and weak." The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. "What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" "Why, you shall say at break of day: 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said: "Why, now not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Adm'r'l; speak and say—" He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: "This mad sea shows his teeth tonight. He curls his lip, he lies in wait, He lifts his teeth, as if to bite! Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word: What shall we do when hope is gone?" The words leapt like a leaping sword: "Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he paced his deck, And peered through darkness. Ah, that night. Of all dark nights! And then a speck— A light! A light! At last a light! It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. He gained a world; he gave that world Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!"

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND

Felicia Browne Hemans

Look now abroad! Another race has fill'd Those populous borders—wide the wood recedes, And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till'd; The land is full of harvests and green meads. —Bryant

The breaking waves dash'd high On a stern and rockbound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches toss'd.

And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moor'd their bark On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear;— They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free!

The ocean eagle soar'd From his nest by the white wave's foam; And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd,— This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band;— Why had they come to wither here, Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?— They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod. They have left unstained, what there they found— Freedom to worship God.

CONCORD HYMN

SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE MONUMENT, APRIL 19, 1836

Ralph Waldo Emerson

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled. Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set today a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee.

OLD IRONSIDES

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar;— The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the nood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee;— The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea!

O better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale!

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has wether'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult, O Shores, and ring, O Bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.