William McCarty, comp. The American National Song Book. 1842.
My Native LandHugh Peters
T
And proudly drives her bow;
The crested seas roll up before:
Yon dark-gray land I see no more,
How sweet thou seemest now!
Thou land of rock and pine,
I’m speeding from thy golden sand;
But can I wave a farewell hand
To such a shore as thine?
Which shades thine emerald sod;
Thy hills, which freeman’s share hath plough’d,
Which nurse a race that have not bow’d
Their knee to aught but God;
Their waters to the fall—
Thy birds which cut, with rushing wing,
The sky that greets thy coming spring,
And thought thy glories small.
Between the sky and sea:
I feel, sweet home, that thou art mine—
I feel my bosom cling to thine—
That I am part of thee.
As children see the earth
Close up a sainted mother’s grave:
They weep for her they cannot save,
And feel her holy worth.
I’m proud to call thee free:
Thy sons are of the pilgrim stock,
And nerved like those who stood the shock
At old Thermopylæ.
Thy children wear them still:
Proud deeds those iron men have done—
They fought and won at Bennington,
And bled at Bunker Hill.
That rives thy mountain ash;
There’s glory in the giant oak,
And rainbow beauty in the smoke
Where crystal waters dash;
That sweeps the hollow glen:
Less sturdy sons would shrink, aghast,
From piercing winds, like those thou hast,
To nurse thine iron men.
And flowers of Eden hue;
Thy loveliest are thy bright-eyed girls,
Of fairy forms and elfin curls,
And smiles like Hermon’s dew.
Too proud to nurse a slave;
They’d scorn to share a monarch’s bed,
And sooner lay their angel head
Deep in their humble grave.
A pilgrim from thy shore:
The wind goes by with hollow moan,
I hear it sigh a warning tone,
“You see your home no more!”
Torn like an ocean weed:
I’m cast away, far, far from thee;
I feel, a thing I cannot be,
A bruised and broken reed.
That wave has hid thee now:
My heart is bow’d as with a spell—
This rending pang!—would I could tell
What ails my throbbing brow!
Which bounds yon western sky;
One tear to cool my burning cheek,
And then—a word I cannot speak—
My native land—“Good-by!”