« PreviousContinue »
There—where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone! There—where thy shadow to thy people shone !
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire :
Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear !
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod!
How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God!
Since our Country, our God-Oh, my Sire!
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now!
And the voice of my mourning is o’er,
And the mountains behold me no more :
If the hand that I love lay me low,
There cannot be pain in the blow!
And of this, oh, my Father! be sure
That the blood of thy child is as pure
As the blessing I beg ere it flow,
Though the virgins of Salem lament,
When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd,
When the voice that thou lovest is hush’d,
Let my memory still be thy pride,