A holy quiet reigned, save where the hand Of labor sent a murmur through the land, And happy voices in a harmony Taught every lisping breeze a melody.
A nest of cabins, where the smoke upcurled A breathing incense to the other world. A land of languor from the sun of noon, That fainted slowly to the pallid moon,
Till stars, thick-scattered in the garden-land Of Heaven by the great Jehovah's hand, Had blossomed into light to look upon The dusky warrior with his arrow drawn,
As skulking from the covert of the night With serpent cunning and a fiend's delight, With murderous spirit, and a yell of hate The voice of Hell might tremble to translate:
When the fond mother's tender lullaby Went quavering in shrieks all suddenly, And baby-lips were dabbled with the stain Of crimson at the bosom of the slain,
And peaceful homes and fortunes ruined — lost In smoldering embers of the holocaust. Yet on and on, through years of gloom and strife, Our country struggled into stronger life;
Till colonies, like footprints in the sand, Marked Freedom's pathway winding through the land — And not the footprints to be swept away Before the storm we hatched in Boston Bay,—
But footprints where the path of war begun That led to Bunker Hill and Lexington,— For he who “dared to lead where others dared To follow” found the promise there declared
Of Liberty, in blood of Freedom's host Baptized to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost! Oh, there were times when every patriot breast Was riotous with sentiments expressed
In tones that swelled in volume till the sound Of lusty war itself was well-nigh drowned. Oh, those were times when happy eyes with tears Brimmed o'er as all the misty doubts and fears
Were washed away, and Hope with gracious mien, Reigned from her throne again a sovereign queen. Until at last, upon a day like this When flowers were blushing at the summer's kiss,
And when the sky was cloudless as the face Of some sweet infant in its angel grace,— There came a sound of music, thrown afloat Upon the balmy air — a clanging note
Reiterated from the brazen throat Of Independence Bell: A sound so sweet, The clamoring throngs of people in the streets Were stilled as at the solemn voice of prayer,
And heads were bowed, and lips were moving there That made no sound — until the spell had passed, And then, as when all sudden comes the blast Of some tornado, came the cheer on cheer
Of every eager voice, while far and near The echoing bells upon the atmosphere Set glorious rumors floating, till the ear Of every listening patriot tingled clear,
And thrilled with joy and jubilee to hear.
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