Liberty Advocate

ODE TO COLUMBIA.
BY EDWARD CHAPMAN.

Columbia's shores, are wild and wide,
Columbia's hills are high;
And rudely planted side by side,
Her forests meet the eye.

Yet narrow must those shores be made,
And low Columbia's hills,
And low her ancient forests laid,
Ere freedom leaves her fields.

For 'tis the spot where rude and wild,
She played her gambols when a child.

The breeze that waves the mountain pine,
Is fragrant and serene,
And never clearer sun did shine
Than lights her valleys green;

Yet putrid must those breezes blow,
The sun must set in gore,
Ere footsteps of a foreign foe
Imprint Columbia's Shore.

For oh! Columbia's sons are Free,
Their hearts beat high with Liberty.

Though deep and wide her streams that flow
Impetuous to the tide,
And thick and green her laurels grow
On every river side;

Yet should some trans-Atlantic host,
Pollute her waters fair,
They'll meet them on the rocky coast,
And gather laurels there.

For Oh! Columbia's sons are brave,
And free as ocean's wildest wave.

For arming boldest cuirasser,
The rich mines of sterling worth,
For sword and buckler, spur and spear,
Embowelled in the earth,

And ne'er Columbia's sons resign
That boon their fathers won,
The polished ore from every mine
Shall glitter in the sun.

For bright's the blade, and sharp the spear,
Which freedom's sons to battle bear.

Let Britain boast the deeds she's done,
Display her trophies bright,
And count her laurels bravely won,
In well contested fight;

Columbia can array a band
To wrest that laurel wreath,
With keener eye and steadier hand
To strike the blow of death.

For whether on the land or sea,
Columbia's fight is victory.

Let France in blood through Europe wade.
And in her frantic mood,
In civil discord draw the blade
To drink her children's blood;

Too dear the skill in arms is bought,
Where kindred life-blood flows,
Columbia's sons are only taught
To triumph o'er its foes;

And then to comfort, soothe and save,
The feelings of the conquered brave.

Then let Columbia's eagle soar,
And bear her banner high,
With thunder in her dexter bower,
And lightning in her eye;

And when she sees from realms above,
The storms of War have spent,
Descending like a meek-eyed dove,
The olive branch present,

Then shall beauty's hand divine,
The never-withering wreath entwine.