Where Glory dwells a hundred years,
That spot becomes a shrine,
The very soil she trod appears
To bear the touch divine;
The rusted gun, the shattered blade,
Are kept with sacred hand,
And Honor bows before the shade
That fought to save the land.
Then why neglect—why give to rot
This victor of the flood?
Is she less holy than the spot
That drank a hero's blood?
Has she no plume to wing a thought—
No spark to fire a mind?
In names like her's such deeds are wrought

As glorify mankind.
And they, whose mighty banner fell
Before her lightning's blast,
Their victor rides the harbor swell
Unshorn of yard and mast;
And Glory gilds her like a sun,
When, steaming thro' the wave,
With dipping flag and rapid gun,
The brave salute the brave.
Then give ours back, the sail, the spar—
Go let her broadside roar!
A gun for every glit'ring star
Her conquering ensign bore.
To show ye have not held in vain
The heritage she kept,
Oh, let her image grace again

The sea she proudly swept!