THE GENIUS OF AMERICA §

AN ODE.

THE GENIUS OF AMERICA;

AN ODE.

I.

WHEN Discord high her sable flag unveil'd,
And British fury drew the fatal sword,*
Wide o'er the plains, from Concord's deadly field,
The conflict raged with many an inroad gored :†
Till now the Sun, declining to the main,

Forsook the circuit of the ethereal way,
And slow evolving o'er the carnaged plain,
Sulphureous vapors dimm'd the falling day;
Th' encrimson'd rays in mournful splendor rise,
And tinged with blood ascend the curtains of the skies.

THE first thirteen stanzas of this ode were composed in 1777, after the capture of Burgoyne and his army; the conclusion was added in 1778, on the expulsion of the British forces from the continent to Staten and New-York islands, after the battle of Monmouth.

* At the battle of Lexington.

- the battle swerved

With many an inroad gored.

Milton.

II.

The

savage tumult of the battle o'er,

On that fair hill, near Boston's fated strand, That rears her beacon in th' aerial tower,

Rose the sad Genius of the Western land. Torn were the sacred laurels on his head;

His purple robes waved careless to the wind Aloft his arm the glittering sword display'd,

For slaughter'd fields in just revenge design'd; His breast in anguish heaved the heart-felt sigh, And tears of vengeance burst, and lighten'd in his eye.

III.

""Tis done, he cried-in vain for human weal, With suppliant hand the palm of peace to rear! Hear then, oh Britain, hear my last appeal

To heaven's dread justice and the flames of war. Then come in all the terrors of thy power,

Stretch the long line and darken o'er the main, Bid the hoarse tempest of the combat roar, And hosts infuriate shake the shuddering plain; League in thy savage cause the foes of life, The Hessian's barb'rous blade, the Indian's murdering knife.

IV.

I see my hills with banded warriors spread ;
On every brow the lines of battle rise ;
Terrific lightnings strew the fields with dead,

And adverse thunders echo through the skies. The vales of Charlestown, sooth'd in bliss no more, Sad wars affright and groans of parting breath ; shall wither in the streams of gore,

Their

grass And flow'rs bloom sicklied with the dews of death; O'er all her domes the bursting flames aspire, Wrap the wide walls in smoke and streak the heavens with fire.

V.

And thou, while Glory on thy youthful bier
Lights her pale lamp, in robes funereal dress'd,
And cold sods, wet with many a falling tear,
Enclose the tomb, where patriot honors rest;
Thou too, my Warren,† from thy ghastly wound,
With life's last stream thy native soil shalt lave;
Enough, thy years that every virtue crown'd,
That every muse's laurel decks thy grave;

* Battle at Bunker-hill.

† Major General Joseph Warren of Boston, who fell at the head of the Massachusetts troops. In him were united the gentleman,