Will ye despise the acorn,
Just thrusting out its shoot,
Ye giants of the forest,
That strike the deepest root?
Will ye despise the streamlets
Upon the mountain side;
Ye broad and mighty rivers,
On sweeping to the tide?
Wilt thou despise the crescent,
That trembles, newly born,
Thou bright and peerless planet,
Whose reign shall reach the morn?
Time now his scythe is whetting,
Ye giant oaks, for you;
Ye floods, the sea is thirsting,
To drink you like the dew.
That crescent, faint and trembling,
Her lamp shall nightly trim,
Till thou, imperious planet,
Shall in her light grow dim;
And so shall wax the Party,
Now feeble at its birth,
Till Liberty shall cover
This tyrant trodden earth.
That party, as we term it,
The Party of the Whole—
Has for its firm foundation,
The substance of the soul;
It groweth out of Reason,
The strongest soil below;
The smaller is its budding,
The more its room to grow!
Then rally to its banners,
Supported by the true—
The weakest are the waning,
The many are the few:
Of what is small, but living,
God makes himself the nurse;
While "Onward" cry the voices
Of all his universe.
Our plant is of the cedar,
That knoweth not decay:
Its growth shall bless the mountains,
Till mountains pass away.
God speed the infant party,
The party of the whole—
And surely he will do it,
While reason is its soul.