Classic Poem

Oh! weep, sons of Freedom! your honor is low;
'Tis bleeding in Liberty's desolate fane;
They, whom ye once rescued, have bow'd to the foe;
Oppression has conquer'd your country again.

Oh! weep, sons of Freedom! your scutcheon is stain'd,
“The star-spangled banner” waves proudly no more;
“The land of the free” has been foully profan'd,
Again hath the tyrant prevail'd, on her shore.

Oh! weep, sons of Freedom! o'er Liberty crush'd,
Yet strive to deliver the broken-down slave;
Though despots demand that your voices be hush'd,
And make it high treason the bondman to save.

Oh! weep, sons of Freedom! for yet there is hope;
The tears of repentance are pleasing to him,
Who casteth you down, and who lifteth you up:—
The cup of repentance fill up to the brim.

Haste, haste, sons of Freedom! the bondman undo;
Break off ev'ry yoke, bid your bondmen go free;
Your light shall then break as the morning anew,
Your peace like a river that flows to the sea.