Not always to the heaven's harmonious spheres,
O Concord! listen — wander earth again;
Beneath thy plastic step
The peopled cities climb.
The chain, the scourge, the axe, beside thee bears
Deaf Nemesis — to avenge the wedlock's stain,
The pillage of the cot,
The spilsh of brother's blood.
From the warm ashes of their plunder'd homes,
On thee with clasped hands, with pleading tongue,
The lonely grandsire calls,
The widow'd mother calls,
And she — the flower of virgins now no more,
Doom'd, aye! to shed the unavailing eye
Some ruffian's orphan brat.
Bind with thy cords of silk the armed hands
Of hateful kings — reach out thy golden cup,
Whose sweet nepenthe heals
The feverish throb of wrath;
And hither lead Hope, crown'd with budding blooms,
And callous-handed Labour, singing loud,
And Plenty scatt'ring gifts
To dancing choirs of glee.
The war-steed's hoof-mark hide with greening ears,
Twine round the elm once more the trampled vine;
And from the grass-grown street
The rugged ruin shove.
So shall new nurseries of sons unborn
More towns arise, — and, Concord, rear to thee,
Taught by the milder arts,
The marble fanes of thank.