AMERICA! Our home, our native land! The joy of it--the rapture! when we say-- We who are freemen and can understand-- This is our heritage--the U. S. A.! Hewn from the virgin forests by our sires, And launched by giants capable and true, Our Ship of State was manned, when Freedom's fires Were beacon lights, by sturdy, godly crew,-- And so hath kept, steered by the Guiding Star Of Faith, her steadfast course, thru shoal or blast, Aloof from sirens luring from afar, With Stars and Stripes still waving at the mast. Here in our Land, where Plenty hath its store, Where fertile fields teem with abundant grain, Hunger ne'er casts its shadow on the door, And Famine hath no lodge on hill or plain. In truth doth Luxury with Plenty vie To fill our laps with all the luscious things That Nature doth provide--loath to deny The satisfaction that such bounty brings. To us was Freedom's heritage bequeathed To have and hold while life and pride remain: And so our sword must ever be unsheathed To guard this priceless boon from hurt or stain-- So that the war-worn hosts in Europe's maze, Who fight against the Despot's ruthless spear, May see the light of Liberty ablaze, Diffusing matchless splendor over here; And, friendly beacon, be to them a sign And Bow of Promise, in their dismal sky, The Light of Hope eternally to shine In God's resplendent galaxy on High. But grim starvation, at the board, presides Across the seas, where once the farmsteads poured Autumnal wealth--and Desolation rides Rough shod along where tramped the Prussian horde. No life remains: the fields are stark and sere; The forests, leaf and branch and root, are fled; The flowers lie trampled on the soldier's bier: Destroyed are e'en the shelters of the dead. The gardens that held plenty in their wombs Are stripped and barren as the sands of Dearth, And now, instead, keep vigil o'er the tombs Of demigods, redeemers of the Earth. The vineyards where the fragrant fruitage hung To cheer the peaceful peasant in his toil Are desolate where Death his shroud has flung Upon the breadth of France's sacred soil. Wrecked are the homesteads: buzzard broods abound Where shell-holes gape, and heaps of carnage rise Above the naked bosom of the ground, Mutely denying guilt, in sacrifice. Still with the jackal at her wounds doth France Fight on unmindful of her pains, and lo! We hear her call and, seizing shield and lance, Crusader-like, to her assistance go. Her cause is just: we make her Cause our own! For Liberty doth in the balance swing, And we must guard her, if we fight alone To rid the world of this malignant _Thing_ That, in the guise of Kultur, hides its hoofs And horns, its tail and spear and hideous face, And, as a pious priest, on Moslem roofs,