Classic Poem

By the spirits of the dead,
Who sunk to death in Erie's wave,—
By the hearts that nobly bled,—
By the free, unconquered brave,—

We will draw the freeman's sword,
When the Briton threats our shore;
Mingle freedom's battle-word
Proudly with the cannon's roar.

We have faced, will face again,
Death and slaughter;—shall we fly?
Shall we leave the tented plain,—
Leave it, when the foe is nigh?

Come, invader! here we stand,
On the border of the wave;
Ere thou touch our native land,
Thou shalt lay us in the grave.

Here we stand, and here we die;
Bring thy ships, thy rockets bring;
Here our nation's flag shall fly,
Here shall wave our Eagle's wing.

Range in battle-line thy fleet,—
Ravage—burn—destroy; but know,
Though we perish, thou shalt meet—
Meet in every form a foe.

Sons of freedom! seize the gun,
Level well the marksman's eye,
Tell them how the deed is done,
Tell how sure our bullets fly.

Draw a sword, the brave may wield,
Draw it, when the Britons come,
“Hurry, hurry to the field,”
With the fife and rolling drum.

Point thy cannons on the foe,
Bid their lightnings flash afar,
Far and wide his thousands strow
With thy thunder-bolts of war.

Mingle boldly in the fray,
Shrink not at the sight of blood,
Think how, on his fatal day,
Firm, undaunted, Lawrence stood.

See! his spirit strides the wave,
Calls you where he nobly fell,—
Victory's summons to the brave,
To the foe his funeral knell.

By that soul of ardent flame,
By that soul that could not yield,
Hurry to the field of fame,—
Hurry to the battle-field.