Poems (Bryant, 1854)/The Antiquity of Freedom
THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM.
Here are old trees, tall oaks and gnarled pines,That stream with gray-green mosses; here the groundWas never trenched by spade, and flowers spring upUnsown, and die ungathered. It is sweetTo linger here, among the flitting birdsAnd leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and windsThat shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass,A fragrance from the cedars, thickly setWith pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades—Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old—My thoughts go up the long dim path of years,Back to the earliest days of liberty.
Oh Freedom! thou art not, as poets dream,A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,And wavy tresses gushing from the capWith which the Roman master crowned his slaveWhen he took off the gyves. A bearded man,Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailed handGrasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow, Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarredWith tokens of old wars; thy massive limbsAre strong with struggling. Power at thee has launchedHis bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee;They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven.Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep,And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires,Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound,The links are shivered, and the prison wallsFall outward; terribly thou springest forth,As springs the flame above a burning pile,And shoutest to the nations, who returnThy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.
Thy birthright was not given by human hands:Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields,While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him,To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars,And teach the reed to utter simple airs.Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood,Didst war upon the panther and the wolf,His only foes; and thou with him didst drawThe earliest furrows on the mountain side,Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself,Thy enemy, although of reverend look,Hoary with many years, and far obeyed,Is later born than thou; and as he meets The grave defiance of thine elder eye,The usurper trembles in his fastnesses.
Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years,But he shall fade into a feebler age;Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares,And spring them on thy careless steps, and clapHis withered hands, and from their ambush callHis hordes to fall upon thee. He shall sendQuaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms,To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful wordsTo charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth,Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on threadThat grow to fetters; or bind down thy armsWith chains concealed in chaplets. Oh! not yetMayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay byThy sword; nor yet, 0 Freedom! close thy lidsIn slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps,And thou must watch and combat till the dayOf the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou restAwhile from tumult and the frauds of men,These old and friendly solitudes inviteThy visit. They, while yet the forest treesWere young upon the unviolated earth,And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new,Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.