WELCOME TO "THE RISING SON."
BY ELIJAH W. SMITH.
Come forth, historian of our race,
And with the pen of Truth
Bring to our claim to Manhood's rights,
The strength of written proof;
Draw back the curtain of the past,
And lift the ages' pall,
That we may view the portraits grand
That hang on History's wall!
Tell of a race whose onward tide
Was often swelled with tears;
In whose hearts bondage has not quenched
The fire of former years
When Hannibal's resistless hosts
Wrought his imperial will,
And brave Toussaint to freedom called,
From Hayti's vine-clad hill.
Write when, in these, our later days,
Earth's noble ones are named,
We have a roll of honor, too,
Of which we're not ashamed;
If, for the errors of the past,
In chains did we atone,
God, from our race's sepulchre,
Hath rolled away the stone.
And our dear land, that long hath slept
Beneath oppression's spell,
Welcomes the manly fortitude
That stood the test so well;
Bearing the record, blazoned o'er
With deeds of valor done,
Up to the Future's golden door
He comes, the "Rising Son."
