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Then danger hovers o’er the Invader’s march,
On raven wings, hushing the song of fame,
And glory’s hues of beauty
Fade from the cheek of death.

A foe is heard in every rustling leaf,
A fortress seen in every rock and tree,
The eagle eye of art
Is dim and powerless then,

And war becomes a people’s joy, the drum
Man’s merriest music, and the field of death
His couch of happy dreams,
After life’s harvest-home.

He battles heart and arm, his own blue sky
Above him, and his own green land around,
Land of his father’s grave,
His blessing and his prayers:

Land where he learned to lisp a mother’s name,
The first beloved in life, the last forgot,
Land of his frolic youth,
Land of his bridal eve—

Land of his children—vain your columned strength,
Invaders! vain your battles’ steel and fire!
Choose ye the morrow’s doom—
A prison or a grave.