JUBILEE OF AMERICAN FREEDOM.
By Archbishop John Hughes (1797-1864)
Great Lord of creation, we owe it to thee,
That our country is kingless, our people are free!
Oh, grant a like boon to that ill-fated Isle
Where the ruled are as brave as their rulers are vile;
Where genius illumines, and minds are sincere;
Where hearts beat in bosoms that never felt fear.
Yes, children of freemen, your fathers could tell
How the Irishman fought, till he conquered or fell;
How the hero stood still when the heartless were flying;
How Arnold betrayed while Montgomery was dying!
Poor Erin, thy sons shall have fame in our story;
Their sickles were mixed in our harvest of glory.
Columbia invites thee to rise and be free,
Till she call thee her sister, thou gem of the sea.
But, hark! Oh, that song swelling higher and higher!
‘Tis the voice of Columbia, attuned to the lyre;
‘Tis her thankgiving anthem, and millions combine
In the chorus of love around Liberty’s shrine.
Peace to the patriot, setting in glory;
His eye hath grown dim, and his locks have grown hoary.
He balanced no sceptre, he cushioned no throne;
He was wise for his country, his country alone.
“Peace to the ashes of heroes that sleep
In the battle-field grave, or the cells of the deep;
Their deeds be the theme of both story and art,
But their names are inscribed in the book of my heart
Shall descend in succession from father to son
Till the trumpet-tongued angel check Time in his flight,
And the dawn of eternity burst on my sight.
Peace to my sons, and my rosy-crowned daughters,
My mountains, my oceans, my cities, my waters!
And peace to the stranger whom tyrants oppressed;
Let him come to my bosom and slumber at rest.
CHORUS.
It is Liberty’s jubilee, swell the loud chorus! Half an age hath gone by—
there are whole ones before us;
That iron chain, rent by our fathers of old,
Is not fit for sons, though its links were of gold.
Rev. Henry A. Brann, D.D., Most Reverend John Hughes: First Archbishop of New York (New York: Dodd. Mead, and Company, 1892), 148-149.