He lay upon his dying bed, His eye was growing dim, When with a feeble voice he call’d, His weeping son to him: “Weep not, my boy,” the veteran said, “I bow to Heaven’s high will, But quickly from yon antlers bring, The sword of Bunker hill.” But quickly from yon antlers bring, The sword of Bunker hill.” The sword was brought, the soldier’s eye Lit with a sudden flame; And as he grasp’d the ancient blade, He murmur’d Warren’s name; Then said, “My boy, I leave you gold, But what is richer still, I leave you, mark me, mark me, now, The sword of Bunker Hill. I leave you, mark me, mark me, now, The sword of Bunker Hill. “Twas on that dread, immortal day, I dared the Briton’s band, A captain raised this blade on me, I tore it from his hand; And while the glorious battle raged, It lighten’d freedom’s will, For, boy, the God of Freedom bless’d The sword of Bunker Hill. For, boy, the God of Freedom bless’d The sword of Bunker Hill. “Oh! keep the sword,” his accents broke, A smile, and he was dead; But his wrinkled hand still grasp’d the blade, Upon that dying bed. The son remains, the sword remains, Its glory growing still, And twenty millions bless the sire And sword of Bunker Hill. And twenty millions bless the sire And sword of Bunker Hill. A National Song. 49 God of the Free! to thee we look, As look’d our sires in days of old, When on thy breath invoked by prayer, Their banner for the Right unroll’d. That glorious banner still is ours; Our falchions like their own shall start, When Freedom’s sent’nel-trumpet calls, To find the impious tyrant’s heart. Their sacred homesteads still we own, And still the wave of Plymouth rolls The hymn of Justice, Labor, Right, And blest Religion in our souls. Their mighty mission was not left By them in vain for us, for we, Heirs of a continent, are yet Subduing mountain, vale, and sea. How proudly on our march we go, With Washington’s own flag unfurl’d; The blood of all the world is here, And he who strikes us, strikes the world! Then wave thine oaken bough, O North! O South! exulting lift thy palms; And in our Union’s heritage Together sing the Nation’s psalms. Belle Brandon. 50