Here are old trees, tall oaks and gnarled pines,
That stream with gray-green mosses;
here the ground
Was never cut by shovel, and flowers spring up
Unplanted, and die ungathered.
It is sweet
To linger here, among the chirping birds
And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds
That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass,
A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set
With bright red berries. In these peaceful shades:
Peaceful, unbedecked, immeasurably old:
My thoughts go up the long dim path of years,
Back to the earliest days of Liberty.
Oh, Liberty! You are not, as the American Poets dream,
A fair young Patron Goddess, with light and delicate limbs,
And wavy brunette locks gushing from the bright bonnet
With which the Roman master crowned his slave
When he took off the ball and chain.
You are more messy and far more untamed than such Visions.
No! You are a bearded man,
Armed to the teeth, are you; one mailed hand
Grasps the broad shield, and one the rifle; your brow,
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred
With tokens of old wars; your massive limbs
Are strong with struggling.
Power at you has launched
His bolts, and with his lightnings smote you;
They could not quench the life you have from Heaven.
Merciless power has dug your dungeon deep,
And his stout armorers, by a thousand fires,
Have forged your chain; yet, while he deems you bound,
The links are rent, and the prison walls
Fall outward; terribly you spring forth,
As springs the flame above a burning log,
And shout to the Nations of the World, who return
Your shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.
Your Birthright was not given by Human hands:
You were born a twin with Man. In pleasant fields,
While still our Race was few in number, You stayed by him,
To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars,
And teach the Desert River to utter simple Blessings.
You by his side, amidst the tangled wood,
Made war with the Mammoth and the Boar,
His only foes; and you with him did draw
The earliest sketches along the mountain side,
Soft with the Heavenly rains.
Tyranny himself,
Your enemy, although of reverent, handsome face,
Wise with many years, and far obeyed,
Is later born than you; and as he meets
The grave defiance of your older eye,
The usurper trembles in his quickness.
You may age stronger with the passing of years,
But he must fade into a feebler age;
Feebler, yet subtler. He can fashion his snares,
And spring them on your careless steps, and vainly rub
His withered hands, and from their ambush call
His hordes to fall upon you. He will send
Rich and beautiful emmisaries, wearing fair and gallant forms,
To catch your gaze, and uttering graceful words of your Praises
To charm your ear; while his sly imps, by stealth,
Tie around you threads of steel, light thread on lighy thread
That grow to great chains; or bind down your arms
With chains concealed, presented as if for your good.
You were conceived before time existed,
And you grew up beside Man,
You cut down evil's strangling vines,
Like a slashing searing cutlass in the hands of the leaders of mortal Men.
You lit fires when fires were not,
And burnt the infant mind of Apes,
Tempering leadened hearts to valiant steel,
From the time that History began.
In your stength, you wept by the waters of Babylon,
And when all men were at a loss,
And you screeched aloud in writhing agony,
As you hung bleeding atop Golgotha.
You died many times over in Rome by lion and sword,
And in defiant cruel array,
When the deathly murmured word was 'Spartacus'
Along the Alpine Way.
You marched alongside William Wallace's poor,
And frightened Lord and King,
And you were emblazoned as a fire in their deathly stare,
As ever a living power.
You smiled in Holy innocence,
Before Conquistadors of old,
So meek and tame and unaware,
Of gold's deathly power.
You burst forth through pitiful Paris streets,
And stormed the stone gates of Bastille,
And, as Michael the Arcangel, you marched upon the Dragon's skull,
And crushed it.
You died in blood on West Montana Plains,
And were starved on tearful trails.
Your heart was buried beneath the muddy palisades of Wounded Knee,
But it will come to rise.
You screamed for all Ireland to hear by Derry lakes,
As your loyal Army was knelt upon the ground,
And Hughes died in great defiance,
As the Black and Tans coldly shot him through the heart.
You can be found in every light of hope,
knowing no bounds nor space
You have risen in red, black, yellow and white,
You are there.
You lie in the hearts of fallen heroes,
Where you scream in tyrants' eyes,
A noise that has reached the peak of mountains high,
And now comes searing as missiles across the endless air.
Oh! Not yet
May you unbrace your chest-plate, nor lay down
Your rifle; nor yet, Oh Liberty! close your eyes
In slumber; for your enemy never sleeps,
And you must watch and combat him until the day
Of the New Earth and Heaven. But would you rest
Awhile from submission and the abuse of Mankind,
These old, friendly times of loneliness invite
Your return. They, the earliest tribes of Men, while still the Sequoia
Was young upon the unviolated earth,
And yet the mossy stains on the rock were fresh,
Beheld your glorious childhood, and rejoiced.