John Pierpont (1785–1866)

O, IS not this a holy spot?

’Tis the high place of Freedom’s birth!

God of our fathers! is it not

The holiest spot of all the earth?

Quench’d is thy flame on Horeb’s side;

The robber roams o’er Sinai now;

And those old men, thy seers, abide

No more on Zion’s mournful brow.

But on this hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt,

Since round its head the war-cloud curl’d

And wrapp’d our fathers, where they knelt

In prayer and battle for a world.

Here sleeps their dust: ’tis holy ground:

And we, the children of the brave,

From the four winds are gather’d round,

To lay our offering on their grave.

Free as the winds around us blow,

Free as the waves below us spread,

We rear a pile, that long shall throw

Its shadow on their sacred bed.

But on their deeds no shade shall fall,

While o’er their couch thy sun shall flame:

Thine ear was bow’d to hear their call,

And thy right hand shall guard their fame.