On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone. Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee. BOSTON HYMN The word of the Lord by night To the watching Pilgrims came, As they sat beside the seaside, And filled their hearts with flame. Cod said, I am tired of kings, I suffer them no more; Up to my ear the morning brings The outrage of the poor. Think ve I made this ball A field of havoc and war, Where tyrants great and tyrants small Might harry the weak and poor? My angel,--his name is Freedom, Choose him to be your king; He shall cut pathways east and west And fend you with his wing. Lo! I uncover the land Which I hid of old time in the West, As the sculptor uncovers the statue When he has wrought his best; I show Columbia, of the rocks Which dip their foot in the seas And soar to the air-borne flocks Of clouds and the boreal fleece. I will divide my goods; Call in the wretch and slave None shall rule but the humble, And none but Toil shall have. I will have never a noble, No lineage counted great; Fishers and choppers and ploughmen Shall constitute a state. Go, cut down trees in the forest And trim the straightest boughs; Cut down trees in the forest And build me a wooden house. Call the people together, The young men and the sires, The digger in the harvest-field, Hireling and him that hires; And here in a pine state-house They shall choose men to rule In every needful faculty, In church and state and school. Lo, now! if these poor men Can govern the land and the sea And make just laws below the sun, As planets faithful be.