Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/187

The breeze that curls thy watery deeps,
The strain that o'er thy mountain sweeps,
       Is fresh with freedom's breath,
Thine annals boast the great and brave
Thy star-clad banner, tells the wave
       Of Liberty or Death.

Rememberest thou those ancient sires,
Who mid the Indian's council fires,
       Explored a trackless clime?
The pillar of their God was bright,
His cloud by day, his flame by night,
       Impelled their course sublime.

Rememberest thou the men who shed
Their blood upon thy bosom red,
       When haughty foes were nigh?
The remnant of that wasted band
Here, mid their buried comrades stand,
       Oh! bless them ere they die.

All hail, proud column, strong and fair,
Which to exulting throngs dost bear
       High record of the past,
And show them on this glorious morn,
The spot where Freedom first was born
       Amid the thunder-blast.

Not like those gloomy mounds that rise
O'er crouching Egypt's sultry skies,