The Fire of Freedom
The holy fire that nerved the Greek
To make his stand at Marathon,
Until the last red foeman’s shriek
Proclaimed that freedom’s fight was won,
Still lives unquenched—unquenchable:
Through every age its fires will burn—
Lives in the hermit’s lonely cell,
And springs from every storied urn.
The hearthstone embers hold the spark
Where fell oppression’s foot hath trod;
Through superstition’s shadow dark
It flashes to the living God!
From Moscow’s ashes springs the Russ;
In Warsaw, Poland lives again:
Schamyl, on frosty Caucasus,
Strikes liberty’s electric chain!
Tell’s freedom-beacon lights the Swiss;
Vainly the invader ever strives;
He finds Sic Semper Tyrannis
In San Jacinto’s bowie-knives!
Than these—than all—a holier fire
Now burns thy soul, Virginia’s son!
Strike then for wife, babe, gray-haired sire,
Strike for the grave of Washington!
The Northern rabble arms for greed;
The hireling parson goads the train—
In that foul crop from, bigot seed,
Old “Praise God Barebones” howls again!
We welcome them to “Southern lands,”
We welcome them to “Southern slaves,”
We welcome them “with bloody hands
To hospitable Southern graves!”