Columbia
By Frederick Lawrence Knowles
Mated to the Millennium,—Time’s last heir
And proudest daughter, conquerless as he;
Girdled with lakes like jewels princely fair,
With strong feet planted in the Mexic sea!
Where Law is liberty, where Love is power,
And the twain one, there Treason cannot dwell;
A fangless asp, it coiled one impotent hour,
But at thy white glance backward writhed to hell.
Leave dotard empires flames of drunken war,
Be thine chaste hours of labor and increase,
Vineyards and harvests yielding guiltless store,
Toil’s bloodless battles on the plains of peace!
Yet when slain Weakness, dying at thy door,
Summoning thy right arm’s vengeance, clasps thy feet,—
Thy sword that drinks her murderer’s blood is pure
As laughing sickles in the saffron wheat.
Clearing a crimson path where Peace may tread
More safely; thou dost play thy patient part,
Love’s pledged ally,—yea, though thy blade be red;
Thrusting War’s weapons thro’ his own false heart.
O goddess, arctic-crowned and tropic-shod
And belted with great waters, hear our cry,—
More honest never reached the ear of God,—
We’ll serve thee, laud thee, love thee, till we die!