Poems (Blake)/The Kearsarge
THE KEARSARGE.
We welcome back the war-worn feet That trod the Southern plain;Have we no sign of praise to greet Their brothers of the main?No heart-warm word, no earnest way, To show the thought that thrillsWhen the old Kearsarge rests to-day Beneath New England's hills?
Yes! by our faith in manly deeds Done thus in noble guise,The hands that fill our nation's needs Are sacred to our eyes:The hands that raised our Nation's stars Above the solemn sea,And held them, spite of wounds and scars, Unconquered, stainless, free!
O moment bright with honest light, And rich with honest grace,When thus the New World held her right Before the Old World's face; Well might the startled echoes wake The British lion's trance,And on their silken standards shake The fleur-de-lis of France.
We are too late to catch the first Swift glory as it came,While yet the notes of triumph burst From out the lips of Fame:But not too late to leave our meed Of honor's fadeless flowers,And hail with welcome and God-speed These sailor-boys of ours.
O stalwarth arms and loyal hearts A Nation holds your name!The seasons wane, the year departs, There is no death for Fame!Her hands will hold the scroll sublime While Freedom's self shall last,Undimmed, untouched, by change or time, Immortal as our past!