Fair science her gates to thy sons shall unbar, And the east shall with morn hide the beams of her star. New bards, and new sages, unrivaled shall soar To fame unextinguished, when time is no more; To thee, the last refuge of virtue designed, Shall fly, from all nations the best of mankind; Here, grateful to heaven, with transport shall bring Their incense, more fragrant than odors of spring. Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory ascend, And genius and beauty in harmony blend; The graces of form shall awake pure desire, And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire; Their sweetness unmingled, their manners refined, The virtue’s bright image, instamped on the mind, With peace and soft rapture shall teach life to glow, And light up a smile in the aspect of woe. Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display, The nations admire and the ocean obey; Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold, And the East and the South yield their spices and gold. As the day-spring unbounded, thy splendor shall flow, And earth’s little kingdoms before thee shall bow; While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled, Hush the tumult of war and give peace to the world. Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o’erspread, From war’s dread confusion I pensively strayed, The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired; The winds ceased to murmur; the thunders expired; Perfumes as of Eden flowed sweetly along, And a voice as of angels enchantingly sung: “Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, The queen of the world, and the child of the skies.” THE FIGHTING PARSON[10] BY HENRY AMES BLOOD It was brave young Parson Webster, His father a parson before him, And here in this town of Temple The people used to adore him; And the minute-men from all quarters That morning had grounded their arms ’Round the meeting-house on the hilltop, Looking down on Temple farms. Dear to the Puritan soldier The food which his meeting-house offered, And especially dear the fine manna Which the young Temple minister proffered; And believe as he might in his firelock, His bayonet, or his sword, The minute-man’s heart was hopeless If not filled with the strength of the Lord. The minute-man ever and always Waited the signal of warning, And he never dreamed in the evening Where his prayers would ascend the next morning; And they even said that the parson Undoubtedly preached his best When his musket stood in the pulpit Ready for use with the rest. Sad was the minister’s message, And many a heart beat faster, And many a soft eye glistened, Whenever the voice of the pastor Dwelt on the absent dear ones Who had followed their country’s call To the distant camp, or the battle, Or the frowning fortress-wall.