Why thus is she wrapt in the black-curling smoke? Why thus have her thunders tumultuously broke O’er the halls of the dark-rolling wave? Why thus have her star-crested flags been unfurl’d Like the wings of some god from the sky to the world? She battles abroad for the brave! Proud hope of our land! we have given thy form To the lord of the breeze and the god of the storm; We have hung from the top of the high soaring mast A broad sheet of stripes with the bird Who cradles his wing in the home of the blast, When the cloud-troops are angrily hurrying past, And the voice of the thunder is heard: We have wet thy scarred decks with the hallowèd blood Of those who have battled for us on the flood, And blessed thee with hearts, which the freemen alone Can possess, when we saw thee sit firm on thy throne Of the dark-rolling waters. Go forth, gallant one!— Go forth in thy glory and pomp o’er the main, And burst with the might of thy sure-pointed gun The palace, the cell and the tyrannous chain. The breezes shall kiss thee: the stars shall illume Thy pathway when dangers are there, And around thee the laurels of triumph shall bloom, Like the plumage of angels abroad on the gloom Of the battle’s tempestuous air. Aye! the great god of freedom who holds in his hand This universe blazing around, Who walks on the billows which hear his command, And straight in deep quiet are found: Aye! he who has yoked, in the ether afar, The lightning-maned steeds of the storm to his car, Shall guide thee all safe o’er the foam, And at last, by the torch of his bright beacon-star, Restore thee once more to thy home! II. But such! ah! such is not my theme— Illumined by a grosser fire Than that which some will truly deem Befitting well the patriot’s lyre. And yet how could I pass thee by— Thou of the fearless soul and eye?— Thou who hast watched my boyhood’s hours Amid thy sacred rocks and rills, Where liberty with glory towers Unshaken on her thousand hills! Genius of freedom! let me stand With thee upon my native land; Still let me hear thy thunder-voice Bid every child of thine rejoice; Still let me see on yonder mast The banner of the heart unfurl’d— The playmate of the ocean-blast, The hope or terror of the world. And when the minstrel’s form is cold, His brightest meed of praise shall be, As o’er his grave yon starry fold By wind and tempest is unroll’d, “Freedom! thy minstrel sang of thee!” ——