Maxioms by Fitz-greene Halleck
Strike--for your altars and your fires;
Strike--for the green graves of your sires.
God--and your native land!
Strike--for your altars and your fires;
Strike--for the green graves of your sires.
God--and your native land!
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of read more
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds read more
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.
They love their land, because it is their own,
And scorn to give aught other reason why;
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They love their land, because it is their own,
And scorn to give aught other reason why;
Would shake hands with a king upon his throne,
And think it kindness to his majesty.
I cannot spare the luxury of believing that all things beautiful are what they seem.
I cannot spare the luxury of believing that all things beautiful are what they seem.
