Poems (Denver)/Freedom's Watchword

by Mary Caroline Denver

FREEDOM'S WATCHWORD.

J. C. D.

"Give me liberty, or give me death."—Patrick Henry.

They stood together side by side, within the halls of state,
The proudest ones of all the land, the gifted and the great.
The gray-haired statesman, who had learned his every thought to hide,
And he, who dark deception's wiles would scorn for very pride.
The energetic soul was there, the will for action, when
The occasion matched the mighty mind;—all stood together then,
But silence was upon each tongue, and darkness on each brow:—
What mighty spell o'ershadows them, that all are silent now?

A mighty spell indeed! a spell has fallen upon each brain,
As memory conjures up and links the chains of love again;
The Past the glorious Past is there, magnificent and lone,
And old affection takes her seat upon the phantom throne,
And points with trembling hand to days—days passed forever by,
When hand was met by kindred hand, and eye met kindred eye.
How could they throw aside the chain, or how unloose the band,
That bound them to the parent-stem, the far-famed motherland?

And on the fame of other years, remembrance looked with pride,
When brave hearts undivided stood, together, side by side;
When brave men smiled to see beneath the forest's shining leaf,
What gleaming orbs of fire bespoke, the dark-browed Indian chief.
And rising in illustrious shape, as if their eyes to mock,
They see the feathered arrows strike—the glittering tomahawk;
Oh! mutual danger met, endeared them to each other more
Than all the pleasures they had quaffed upon the banquet-floor.

Those dreams are broken—gone the Past, and gone her magic thrall,
When one arises in their midst, the noblest of them all!
"Thou thinkest of a worn-out World, thou dweller of the New,
And of her glory too, perchance, but is it shared by you?
Go ask the slave, that in the mine, toils through unendihg night,
If the gold he seeks for gives him joy, because that gold is bright?
We, for her glory struggle on, down to destruction's waves;
What does it matter?—she is great, and are we not her slaves?

"Ye think upon the Past—now turn, and on the Present think:
We ask her for affection's cup, she gives us scorn to drink!
But fourfold shall it be returned, amid the battle's glare.
We'll tear a nation from her grasp, and shame shall be her share.
We'll be a nation of ourselves; have glory of our own.
Will win it for no other land; no monarch on his throne:
No king conferring rank or shame, with vacillating breath
No stronger than mine own! then give me Liberty or Death!"

Then thrillingly to every cheek the crimson blood up-sprang,
And each one started to his feet as if a trumpet rang;
Firm is each lip, and fixed and bright the lustre of each eye,
And wildly throbs each beating heart, impetuous and high,
While murmurs rise around—at first, low as the breezes hum;
But gathering strength as they advance, like wild sea-waves they come,
Swelling into one mighty shout, given with unfaltering breath:
"We'll stand together—give to us, give Liberty or Death!"

Then fast and far, like hurrying winds across the tossing sea,
Abroad through all the land it went, that watchword of the free!
The preacher in his pulpit stood, in silence and alone,
There came upon his musing ear, a strange, a startling tone;
He lifted up his eyes to heaven, as if it came from there;
He lifted up his heart to heaven, in deep and solemn prayer:
"We ask not Pride, nor gorgeous Pomp, nor Glory's fading wreath,
We ask not these—but give, give us Liberty or Death!"

And they—the hardiest of the land—sons of the mountain-soil,
Whose hearts were strong with courage, and whose hands were hard with toil,
Ah! honored be those dauntless men, the brave, the truly free,
Honored be they!—except to God, to none they bend the knee.
The plough was left within the field, the furrow was not done,
Down dropped at once each implement, and up rose every one:
"If we are slaves, alike to us rich soil or barren heath,
We'll strike for both, and freely strike, for Liberty or Death."

And he whose voice was heard alone amid the battle's blast,
Whose form was only seen amid war's whirl-wind as it past;
The forest was his tower by day; by night it was a flame—
The Briton saw the light arise, and shouted Marion's name.
Bold man! the gallant leader of a gallant little band,
Thou wert among the first to snatch the beacon's flaming brand,
"Ay! let us live the patriot's life, or yield the patriot's breath,
We ask no other terms,—then strike for Liberty or Death!"

Should it be asked if Victory went onward in their track.
Proud Saratoga's rocky plain can give the answer back;
Where Britain's haughty soldiery war's bitterest fortune wept,
And envied those, more fortunate, who, waiting burial, slept.
Old Bennington can tell how Stark discomfited the foe,
And Trenton how the invaders' blood stained its wide fields of snow,
And Yorktown's shattered walls can tell, how fortune's fickle breath
To millions living and unborn gave liberty, not Death!