Though, by her dictates ruled, we may
Be still prepared for war:
The force which from our union grows
Shall aid our friends, and crush our foes.
Thus is our constitution rear'd
On freedom, strength, and peace;
By Virtue loved, by Faction fear'd:
For Faction's self must cease.
Contented now, we'll happy live,
While industry and trade shall thrive.
Come, Ceres! come in golden pride:
Adorn each waving field:
Come, with Pomona by thy side,
And fruitful harvests yield:
The heavenly pair their favours shower,
And Agriculture owns their power.
See, Commerce, with extended hand,
Flies the restraint of kings;
And foreign riches to this land,
From every climate brings.
Bless'd by her smiles, we soon shall find,
That where she's free, she's always kind.
May Science, and her handmaid, Art,
To this new world belong!
And infant Muses joy impart
In strains of sportive song.
Apollo see! with glory dress'd,
Appears, refulgent, in the west.
America is thus become
A seat to Freedom dear,
Where virtuous strangers find a home,
And no oppression fear.
These rising states shall be renown'd;
By Plenty, Art, and Science crown'd.
284 ADDRESS TO BRITAIN AND AMERICA.
WHEN rival nations, great in arms,
Great in power, in glory great,
Fill the world with war's alarms,
And breathe a temporary hate—
The hostile storms yet rage a while,
And the dire contest ends.
But, ah! how hard to reconcile
The foes who once were friends!
Each hasty word, each look unkind,
Each distant hint, that seems to mean
A something lurking in the mind,
That almost longs to lurk unseen
Each shadow of a shade offends
The imbittered foes who once were friends.
That Power, alone, who framed the soul,
And bade the springs of passion play,
Can all their jarring strings control,
And form on discord concord's sway.
'Tis He alone, whose breath of love
Did o'er the world of waters move,
Whose touch the mountain bends,
Whose voice from darkness call'd forth light,
'Tis He, alone, can reunite
The foes who once were friends.
To Him, O Britain! bow the knee;
His awful, his august decree,
Columbia's sons adore;
Forgive at once, and be forgiven,
Ope in each breast a little heaven,
And discord is no more.
A Song composed by Mr. JOHN M'CREARY, of Petersburg, Virginia, and sung at that place the Fourth of July, 1815.
No more the loud tones of the trumpet resound,
No more the war-bugle's wild notes strike the ear;
Our warriors return from the battle renown'd,
To the bosom of friendship and families dear.
Mild Peace round her flings
Balmy sweets from her wings,
The welkin with echoes of happiness rings; Come, toast our brave heroes, and swear, this great day
We will hand down in glory till time pass away.
The Briton, enraged, had proclaim'd, in his pride,
To erase the strong fabric our sires had erected;
To pollute the fair fane for which millions have died,
To destroy Freedom's temple, by freemen protected.
Boasting loud, o'er the wave
Come his Wellingtons brave,
Ah! who shall the green tree of liberty save?
Mark the eagle of Freedom, his banners unfurl'd,
His eye on the sun, while suspense chains the world.
From a thousand ships pouring, his conquerors of
France
Debouch on our plains in the dread pomp of war;
Confiding in conquest, they gayly advance;
Their deep-mouth'd artillery thunders afar;
Near Niagara's roar
The parch'd earth drank their gore-
Our heroes their garbs triumphantly wore.
Brown, Scott, Gaines, and Ripley their falchions
raised high,
Their resolve" We will conquer, or gloriously die."
See, the sons of the west! like a dark cloud of night,
With eagerness forth from their deep forests throng;
Their death-tubes of terror prepared for the fight,
Like their own Mississippi, impetuous and strong.
'Tis Jackson who leads
Where the vaunting invader in agony bleeds:
Come, toast then our heroes, we swear this great day
We will hand down, in glory, till time pass away.
DEATH OF DU COUDRAY.
In the spring of life he left
His relatives and hearth,
And bade a long farewell unto
The land which gave him birth.
Within his young breast glow'd
The patriot's holy flame:
In the glorious strife for liberty,
To aid our sires he came.
He came in that dark hour
Which souls the sternest tried: But freely the young warrior bound The falchion to his side. Its burning zeal gave promise Of a chivalrous career:
The rolling drum, and cannon peal Was music to his ear.
Ah! Death is often nearest
When least we deem him nigh:
This noble son of France fell not
Where warriors meet to die.
The banner, bathed in slaughter,
Alas! was not his shroud:
Nor was the gallant stranger's pall
The wreathing battle-cloud.
Impatient, in the fearful strife,
To wield his blade untried,
He urged his steed until he reach'd
The Schuylkill's rapid tide.
A boat, to bear him over, soon
Across the flood was sent,
And into it the fiery youth,
Without dismounting, went.
Regardless of the rein, the steed,
(Affrighted by the gleam
Of weapons,) with his rider plunged Into the foaming stream.
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