Dread sovereign, thou! the chainless will—
Thy source the nation's mighty heart—
The ballot box thy cradle still—
Thou speak'st, and nineteen millions start;
Thy subjects, sons of noble sires;
Descendants of a patriot band—
Thy lights a million's household fires—
Thy daily walk, my native land.
And shall the safeguard of the free,
By valor won on gory plains,
Become a solemn mockery
While freemen breathe and virtue reigns?
Shall liberty be bought and sold
By guilty creatures clothed with power?
Is honor but a name for gold,
And principle a withered flower?
The parricide's accursed steel
Has pierced thy sacred sovereignty;
And all who think, and all who feel,
Must act or never more be free.
No party chains shall bind us here;
No mighty name shall turn the blow:
Then, wounded sovereignty, appear,
And lay the base apostates low.
The wretch, with hands by murder red,
May hope for mercy at the last;
And he who steals a nation's bread,
May have oblivion's statute passed.
But he who steals a sacred right,
And brings his native land to scorn,
Shall die a traitor in her sight,
With none to pity or to mourn.