Here, stranger, stay! This is the sacred spot
Which knew the patriots in the years agone.
Here trod the noblest form the land has known;
Here swelled the stateliest soul e'er form has held;
And here—nor here alone, but round the world,
And throughout heaven—my faith will have it so—
The name most loved is spoken, and rolls on
Revered by freemen, and by angels breathed,
And trembling oft upon the lips of slaves,
Brightening their dream of hope. Still to our hearts
Let the great name of Washington be dear;
And faithful as the star is to the night,
Or as Niagara to his cataract true,
Let the increasing stream of praise be poured
From off a nation's tongue. This is the spot:
Here is the hallowed hall where bravely met
Freedom's stout conclave, pledging lives and honour;
And this the terrace, looking to the square,
Where Liberty's apostle, all a-glow
With the wild ardour of the hour, came forth,
And, to the applauding patriot crowd without,
Read the great chart ere yet the names were dry.
This is the place: and there, upon the step,
Behold, where sits yon figure scarred and grey,
His stout staff taking palsy from his hand,
And shaking on the door-stone. Here, once more,
He pays the yearly visit to the spot,
And lives in memory all the glorious past;
And thus unto the group of listeners gives
The visions of gone days, as one by one
They rise before his spiritual eye.

“Lo, now the cannon thundering to the sky,
The thickening fumes that scent the heated air,
Recall the camp, and spread before mine eye
The pitch of battle and the triumph there.

The summoned ploughman grasps the ready gun,
And swiftly strides across the furrowed sod;
The smith, ere half the heated shoe is done.
Swings on in haste, and rides the steed unshod

The mason flings his glittering trowel by,
And leaves behind the pale and weeping few;
The miller's wheel above the stream hangs dry,
While o'er the hill he waves the swift adieu.

Lo, all the air is throbbing to the drum;
In every highway sounds the shrilly fife;
And flashing guns proclaim afar they come,
Where hurried banners lead the way to strife.

Though rude the music, and the arms are rude,
And rustic garments fill the motley line,
Yet noble hearts, with noble hopes imbued,
Thrill through the ranks with energy divine.—

Thrill through the ranks until those sounds become
Celestial melodies from Freedom's lips!
These arms an engine to strike despots dumb,
And leave oppression howling in eclipse.

Then comes the struggle, raging loud and long—
The seven years' battle with the banded foes—
The tyrant, and the savage, and the strong
Grim arm of want with all its direst woes.

Half clad and barefoot, bleeding where they tread,
Where hunger and disease allied consort,
The pale survivors stand among their dead,
And brave the winter in their snow-walled fort.

But heavier than the storms which fold the Earth,
Than all the ills which winter's hand commits,
The bitter thought that at the sacred hearth
Of unprotected homes some horror sits.

But God is just; and they who suffer most,
Win most; for tardy triumph comes at last!
The patriot, bravely dying at his post,
Hath rivalled all the Cæsars of the past.

Right conquers Wrong, and glory follows pain,
The cause of Freedom vindicated stands;
And heaven consents; while, staring o'er the main,
Old Europe greets us with approving hands.

If now a film o'er-swim my aged gaze,
Or if a tremour in my voice appear,
It is the memory of those glorious days
Which moves my failing frame and starts the tear

Oh, on this sacred spot again to rest,
Where passed the patriots, ere this old heart faints!
Then I depart, with a contented breast,
Where they are walking crowned among the saints.

Here on these steps, made holy by their tread,
I list their kindling voices as of yore;
And hear that bell, now hanging speechless, dead,
Which rung for Freedom, broke, and rung no more.

Broke with the welcome tidings on its tongue,
Broke, like a heart, with joy's excessive note!
'Tis well no cause less glorious e'er hath rung
In silver music from its hallowed throat.”