Page:The Spirit of the Nation.djvu/168

72 For the shower of crimson rain,

That o'erflow'd that fatal plain,

Cries aloud, and not in vain,

To the most high God.

IX.

Tho' the Saxon snake unfold

At thy feet his scales of gold,

And vow thee love untold,

Trust him not, Green Land;

Touch not with gloveless clasp

A coil'd and deadly asp,

But with strong and guarded grasp

In your steel-clad hand.

Brothers, arise! the hour has come

To strike the blow for truth and God;

Why sit ye folded up and dumb—

Why bending kiss the tyrant's rod?

Is there no hope upon the earth—

No charter in the starry sky?

Has freedom no ennobling worth?

And man no immortality?

Ah, brothers! think ye what ye are!

What glorious work ye have to do,

And how they wait ye near and far

To do the same the wide world through.