Poems (Ford)/The Patriot's Vow
THE PATRIOT'S VOW.
O'er mountains blue, and green-robed hills,
Belted by countless silver rills,
Whose low-voiced, murmuring music fills
The pure, health-breathing air,
Where, fringed with groves, green valleys lie,
Arched by an ever-changing sky,
The patriot looks with reverent eye
On land so sad and fair.
Belted by countless silver rills,
Whose low-voiced, murmuring music fills
The pure, health-breathing air,
Where, fringed with groves, green valleys lie,
Arched by an ever-changing sky,
The patriot looks with reverent eye
On land so sad and fair.
Her towers and halls to ruin gone—
Proud relics of the ages flown—
The ivy drapes each moldering stone,
To shroud its sad decay;
Her mighty chieftains, brave and bold,
Who mildly ruled in days of old,
Have slumbered long beneath the mold,
And tyrants now hold sway.
Proud relics of the ages flown—
The ivy drapes each moldering stone,
To shroud its sad decay;
Her mighty chieftains, brave and bold,
Who mildly ruled in days of old,
Have slumbered long beneath the mold,
And tyrants now hold sway.
"Alas, my land!" the patriot cries,
"When wilt thou from the dust arise?
Thy sad complaints may rend the skies,
But ne'er thy fetters break;
Thy hope must be in deeds—not words;
The keenest logic lies in swords;
Thou canst not loose, then cut the cords
That bind thee to the stake.
"When wilt thou from the dust arise?
Thy sad complaints may rend the skies,
But ne'er thy fetters break;
Thy hope must be in deeds—not words;
The keenest logic lies in swords;
Thou canst not loose, then cut the cords
That bind thee to the stake.
"A stern voice rings from rocks and waves,
From ruined homes and heroes' graves:
'God never made our land for slaves—
Her children's limbs for chains!'
Brave hearts, strong arms are thine, green land;
And vowed to right thy wrongs we stand—
To never rest while despot's hand
Defiles thy hallowed plains.
From ruined homes and heroes' graves:
'God never made our land for slaves—
Her children's limbs for chains!'
Brave hearts, strong arms are thine, green land;
And vowed to right thy wrongs we stand—
To never rest while despot's hand
Defiles thy hallowed plains.
"Here, kneeling on this sacred sod,
By feet of patriot-martyrs trod,
Our trust in right and Freedom's God,
We swear we shall be free!
As freemen on our native plains
We'll firmly stand while life remains,
Nor wear a foreign tyrant's chains,
Nor bend a conquered knee!"
By feet of patriot-martyrs trod,
Our trust in right and Freedom's God,
We swear we shall be free!
As freemen on our native plains
We'll firmly stand while life remains,
Nor wear a foreign tyrant's chains,
Nor bend a conquered knee!"