Mourn, Columbia! Helpless mother, mourn!
Wring thy hands in widowed, hopeless
woe;
Sorrow robes thee—gloom enshrouds
thee. Lo!
Dim the feature joy did once adorn;
Melancholic fancies, burning tears
Leave their wrinkles and gnawing fears.
Mother,
in this trying hour,
Spurn
us not, though guilty we,
Thou
the wounded, parent flower,
We,
the tendrils, cling to thee.
Love
us, mother, in thy tears,
In
thy tears, in thy tears.
Are we Roman? Where is Caesar? Where?
Are we Saxon? Where is Carlos?
Blood,
Purpling veins, that might do
monarchs good—
Stabbed him Brutus? Cromwell? Nay, it there
Gushed at worse—Great heart! Fathers! Sank red—
Ebbing life, like sinking sun—sank dead.
Fold
us, mother, in this hour,
To
thy warm and loving breast,
Chilling
clouds of anguish lower,
Fold
us closer to thy breast.
Mother,
fold us in thy tears,
In
thy tears, in thy tears.
Lifeless lay the nation’s heart in dust;
Muffled clicks o’er seas the tidings
bore;
One contracted brow the nations
wore;
Heartbroke went we, heartbroke bent we—Must,
Mighty Father, must we say it? There
Vengeance, vengeance, burdened each one’s prayer.
Mother,
see! Tisiphone.
Sink
not wildly in despair;
Lo! the vengeful,
heartless fury,
See
the serpents in her hair;
She
redress will give thee, mother,
In
thy tears, in thy tears.
Mourn, Columbia! Helpless mother, mourn!
Fairest gem that shines on triumph’s
brow!
Peerless daughter of renown! Oh,
thou!
Where shall those heaven-lighted eyes now turn?
Nations pause to catch the starting tear,
Diadems pale when it doth but appear.
Mother,
round thy brow so tender
We
have wreathed a crown of tears,
But
one sorrow adds a splendor,
On
each tear a pearl appears,
And
art, mother, sweet Columbia,
Fairer
for thy crown of tears,
Fairer,
dearer, loved mother,
In
thy tears, in thy tears.
