Bright was the morn,—the waveless bay
Shone like a mirror to the sun;
'Mid greenwood shades and meadows gay,
The matin birds their lays begun:
While swelling o'er the gloomy wood
Was heard the faintly-echoed roar,—
The dashing of the foaming flood,
That beat on Erie's distant shore.
The tawny wanderer of the wild
Paddled his painted birch canoe,
And, where the wave serenely smiled,
Swift as the darting falcon, flew;
He rowed along that peaceful bay,
And glanced its polished surface o'er,
Listening the billow far away,
That rolled on Erie's lonely shore.
What sounds awake my slumbering ear?
What echoes o'er the waters come?
It is the morning gun I hear,
The rolling of the distant drum.
Far o'er the bright illumined wave
I mark the flash,—I hear the roar,
That calls from sleep the slumbering brave,
To fight on Erie's lonely shore.
See how the starry banner floats,
And sparkles in the morning ray:
While sweetly swell the fife's gay notes
In echoes o'er the gleaming bay:
Flash follows flash, as through yon fleet
Columbia's cannons loudly roar,
And valiant tars the battle greet,
That storms on Erie's echoing shore.
O, who can tell what deeds were done,
When Britain's cross, on yonder wave,
Sunk 'neath Columbia's dazzling sun,
And met in Erie's flood its grave?
Who tell the triumphs of that day,
When, smiling at the cannon's roar,
Our hero, 'mid the bloody fray,
Conquered on Erie's echoing shore?
Though many a wounded bosom bleeds
For sire, for son, for lover dear,
Yet Sorrow smiles amid her weeds,—
Affliction dries her tender tear;
Oh! she exclaims, with glowing pride,
With ardent thoughts that wildly soar,
My sire, my son, my lover died,
Conquering on Erie's bloody shore!
Long shall my country bless that day,
When soared our Eagle to the skies;
Long, long in triumph's bright array,
That victory shall proudly rise:
And when our country's lights are gone,
And all its proudest days are o'er,
How will her fading courage dawn,
To think on Erie's bloody shore!
* * * * * * * * *
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.
