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| HOW sweet is the song of the festal rite, | |
| When the bosom with rapture swells high; | |
| When the heart, at the soft touch of pleasure, beats light, | |
| And bright is the beam of the eye. | |
| In the dirge, that is pour’d o’er affection’s bier, | 5 |
| How holy an interest dwells, | |
| When the frequent drop of the frequent tear, | |
| The heart-rending anguish tells; | |
| But sweeter the song that the minstrel should raise | |
| To the patriot victor’s fame, | 10 |
| And livelier the tones of the heart-gender’d praise, | |
| That should wake from the harp at his name: | |
| But holier the dirge that the minstrel should pour | |
| O’er the fallen hero’s grave, | |
| Whose arm wields the sword for his country no more, | 15 |
| Who has died the death of the brave. | |
| |
| There lives in the bosom a feeling sublime; | |
| Of all, ’t is the strongest tie; | |
| Unvarying through every change of time, | |
| And only with life does it die. | 20 |
| ’T is the love that is borne for that lovely land, | |
| That smiled on the hour of our birth; | |
| ’T is the love, that is planted by nature’s hand, | |
| For our sacred native earth. | |
| ’T was this that the patriot victor inspired, | 25 |
| Was strong in the strength of his arm, | |
| With the holiest zeal his brave bosom fired, | |
| And to danger and death gave a charm. | |
| ’T was this that the dying hero blest, | |
| And hallow’d the hour when he fell, | 30 |
| That throbb’d in the final throb of his breast, | |
| And heaved in his bosom’s last swell: | |
| |
| When a thousand swords, in a thousand hands, | |
| To the sunbeams of heaven shone bright; | |
| When the willing hearts of Columbia’s bands, | 35 |
| Were firm for Columbia’s right; | |
| When the blood of the west, in the battle was pour’d, | |
| In defence of the rights of the west; | |
| When the blood of the east stain’d the point of the sword, | |
| At the Eastern king’s behest: | 40 |
| Till the angel form of returning peace, | |
| O’er the plain and the mountain smiled— | |
| Bade the rude blast of war from its ravage to cease, | |
| And the sweet gale of plenty breathe mild. | |
| She smiled—and the nation’s mighty woes | 45 |
| Ceased to stream from the nation’s eyes; | |
| She smiled—and a fabric of wisdom arose, | |
| And exalted its fame to the skies. | |
| |
| Then firm be its base, as the giant rock | |
| ’Midst the ocean waves alone, | 50 |
| That the beating rain and the tempest shock, | |
| For numberless years has borne. | |
| And blasted the parricide arm, that shall plan | |
| That glorious structure’s fall; | |
| But still may it sanction the rights of man, | 55 |
| And liberty guardian to all. | |
| Then sweet be the song that the minstrel should raise, | |
| To the patriot victor’s fame, | |
| And lively the tones of the heart-gender’d praise, | |
| That should wake from the harp at his name. | 60 |
| Then holy the dirge that the minstrel should pour, | |
| O’er the fallen hero’s grave, | |
| Whose hand wields the sword for his country no more, | |
| Who has died the death of the brave. | |
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