Lift high the notes of praise!

             Behold! where lies the awakening sun,

            She comes, and from her queenly brow

             Shoots glad, inspiring rays.

              Mistress, we bend to thee!

            Fair is the moon amid the starry choir

             That twinkle o'er the sky,

             Shining in silvery, mild tranquillity; —

            The mother with her sons more fair!

             See! blooming at her side,

            She leads the royal, youthful pair;

             With gentle grace, and soft, maternal pride,

             Attempering sweet their manly fire.

            From this fair stem a beauteous tree

             With ever-springing boughs shall smile,

             And with immortal verdure shade our isle;

            Mother of heroes, joy to thee!

            Triumphant as the sun thy kingly race

             Shall spread from clime to clime,

             And give a deathless name to rolling time!

         Look down! benignant Queen of Heaven, and still,

         This proud tumultuous heart, that in my breast

         Swells with a mother's tide of ecstasy,

         As blazoned in these noble youths, my image

         More perfect shows; – Oh, blissful hour! the first

         That comprehends the fulness of my joy,

         When long-constrained affection dares to pour

         In unison of transport from my heart,

         Unchecked, a parent's undivided love:

         Oh! it was ever one – my sons were twain.

         Say – shall I revel in the dreams of bliss,

         And give my soul to Nature's dear emotions?

         Is this warm pressure of thy brother's hand

         A dagger in thy breast?

                      Or when my eyes

         Feed on that brow with love's enraptured gaze,

         Is it a wrong to thee?

                     Trembling, I pause,

         Lest e'en affection's breath should wake the fires

         Of slumbering hate.

                    Speak! In your secret hearts

         What purpose dwells? Is it the ancient feud

         Unreconciled, that in your father's halls

         A moment stilled; beyond the castle gates,

         Where sits infuriate war, and champs the bit —

         Shall rage anew in mortal, bloody conflict?

            Concord or strife – the fate's decree

            Is bosomed yet in dark futurity!

            What comes, we little heed to know,

            Prepared for aught the hour may show!

         What mean these arms? this warlike, dread array,

         That in the palace of your sires portends

         Some fearful issue? needs a mother's heart

         Outpoured, this rugged witness of her joys?

         Say, in these folding arms shall treason hide

         The deadly snare? Oh, these rude, pitiless men,

         The ministers of your wrath! – trust not the show

         Of seeming friendship; treachery in their breasts

         Lurks to betray, and long-dissembled hate.

         Ye are a race of other lands; your sires

         Profaned their soil; and ne'er the invader's yoke

         Was easy – never in the vassal's heart

         Languished the hope of sweet revenge; – our sway

         Not rooted in a people's love, but owns

         Allegiance from their fears; with secret joy —

         For conquest's ruthless sword, and thraldom's chains

         From age to age, they wait the atoning hour

         Of princes' downfall; – thus their bards awake

         The patriot strain, and thus from sire to son

         Rehearsed, the old traditionary tale

         Beguiles the winter's night. False is the world,

         My sons, and light are all the specious ties

         By fancy twined: friendship – deceitful name!

         Its gaudy flowers but deck our summer fortune,

         To wither at the first rude breath of autumn!

         So happy to whom heaven has given a brother;

         The friend by nature signed – the true and steadfast!

         Nature alone is honest – nature only —

         When all we trusted strews the wintry shore —

         On her eternal anchor lies at rest,

         Nor heeds the tempest's rage.

                         My mother!

                               Hear me

         Be noble, and forget the fancied wrongs

         Of boyhood's age: more godlike is forgiveness

         Than victory,