O, is not this a holy spot!
'T is the high place of Freedom's birth!
God of our fathers! is it not
The holiest spot of all the earth?
Quenched 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 curled,
And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt
In prayer and battle for a world.
Here sleeps their dust; 't is holy ground;
And we, the children of the brave,
From the four winds are gathered 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 bowed to hear their call,
And thy right hand shall guard their fame.