Who lays a stone, or plants a tiny tree,
Or sows a seed of truth with jealous care;
Who does this in the name of liberty,
Has breathed a patriot's prayer.
'T is not the blare of trumpet that proclaims
The bravest, truest deeds of valor done;
Nor yet the highest shaft that bears the names
Of greatest victories won.
We all were patriots, when the banners waved
On high, to kiss a mellow land of peace;
We all are soldiers with the country saved,
When belching cannons cease.
But when the day shall come, what means the wave
Of starry flag against a stormy sky,
If men have not the patriot's will to save,
Or courage now to die?
What means the boast, if there no works be found
Commensurate with blind and trusting faiths?
If these hoarse shouts that through the air resound,
Proceed from hollow wraiths?
If there be set upon the Nation's stair
A crumbling god, whose blighting name is Self?
Seek ye the light of patriotism there,
Beside the spoils of pelf?
Should there be need!—God hold the fateful day
In stumbling tardiness, where time is born,
Nor haste the call, but let the light, we pray,
Meet every waking morn!
Fling out the beauty of thy missal free,
Oh! thou my Country Beautiful, and then
Columbia, draw thy children to thy knee,—
Thy heart has called for men!
Thou art the daughter of as pure a sire,
As ever fathered nation of the earth;
Thine is the heritage of holy fire,
God-given, at his birth!
Then yield thy homage; 't is a little thing
That we can lend to garland his bright scroll.
Swing high the banners, bid the full time ring
The deep bells of the soul.
In his fair name, ring out the cries that rend,—
The life of hopeless want and needless pain;
The narrow, grinding labor that must bend
Both youth and age, for gain.
Bring in the dignity of labor, paid,
Not wages that are doled like drops of life;
Nor at the horny hands let honor fade,
Nor right awaken strife.
Blot out the hiss of anarchy that dwells
In squalid places, brewing in the night,
And break the decalogue of self, which tells
That might makes even right.
Cast out the fatted Pharisees, who fold
Their robes about them, 'broidered with rust;
Wring from the miser's hands ill gotten gold,
But leave him all that's just.
Yea, level thou the rank and file of men,
Columbia, oh! thou daughter of the free,—
Thy aristocracy is truth, and then
Thy watchword, “Liberty!”
And let the keystone of thine arch be Love,
And be the arch, Humanity to Man.
Thy deed to nations of the earth shall prove
Thy Union's strength and span.
Ay, keep this day,—a “holy day” by name,
A white stone, as the drifting years pass on;
And 'neath a white seal, spotless keep the fame
Of peerless Washington!
Or sows a seed of truth with jealous care;
Who does this in the name of liberty,
Has breathed a patriot's prayer.
'T is not the blare of trumpet that proclaims
The bravest, truest deeds of valor done;
Nor yet the highest shaft that bears the names
Of greatest victories won.
We all were patriots, when the banners waved
On high, to kiss a mellow land of peace;
We all are soldiers with the country saved,
When belching cannons cease.
But when the day shall come, what means the wave
Of starry flag against a stormy sky,
If men have not the patriot's will to save,
Or courage now to die?
What means the boast, if there no works be found
Commensurate with blind and trusting faiths?
If these hoarse shouts that through the air resound,
Proceed from hollow wraiths?
If there be set upon the Nation's stair
A crumbling god, whose blighting name is Self?
Seek ye the light of patriotism there,
Beside the spoils of pelf?
Should there be need!—God hold the fateful day
In stumbling tardiness, where time is born,
Nor haste the call, but let the light, we pray,
Meet every waking morn!
Fling out the beauty of thy missal free,
Oh! thou my Country Beautiful, and then
Columbia, draw thy children to thy knee,—
Thy heart has called for men!
Thou art the daughter of as pure a sire,
As ever fathered nation of the earth;
Thine is the heritage of holy fire,
God-given, at his birth!
Then yield thy homage; 't is a little thing
That we can lend to garland his bright scroll.
Swing high the banners, bid the full time ring
The deep bells of the soul.
In his fair name, ring out the cries that rend,—
The life of hopeless want and needless pain;
The narrow, grinding labor that must bend
Both youth and age, for gain.
Bring in the dignity of labor, paid,
Not wages that are doled like drops of life;
Nor at the horny hands let honor fade,
Nor right awaken strife.
Blot out the hiss of anarchy that dwells
In squalid places, brewing in the night,
And break the decalogue of self, which tells
That might makes even right.
Cast out the fatted Pharisees, who fold
Their robes about them, 'broidered with rust;
Wring from the miser's hands ill gotten gold,
But leave him all that's just.
Yea, level thou the rank and file of men,
Columbia, oh! thou daughter of the free,—
Thy aristocracy is truth, and then
Thy watchword, “Liberty!”
And let the keystone of thine arch be Love,
And be the arch, Humanity to Man.
Thy deed to nations of the earth shall prove
Thy Union's strength and span.
Ay, keep this day,—a “holy day” by name,
A white stone, as the drifting years pass on;
And 'neath a white seal, spotless keep the fame
Of peerless Washington!