Star crucified—by traitors sold, Star panting o’er a land of death, heroic land, Strange, passionate, mocking, frivolous land.
Miserable! yet for thy errors, vanities, sins, I will not now rebuke thee, Thy unexampled woes and pangs have quell’d them all, And left thee sacred.
In that amid thy many faults thou ever aimedst highly, In that thou wouldst not really sell thyself however great the price, In that thou surely wakedst weeping from thy drugg’d sleep, In that alone among thy sisters thou, giantess, didst rend the ones that shamed thee, In that thou couldst not, wouldst not, wear the usual chains, This cross, thy livid face, thy pierced hands and feet, The spear thrust in thy side.
O star! O ship of France, beat back and baffled long! Bear up O smitten orb! O ship continue on!
Sure as the ship of all, the Earth itself, Product of deathly fire and turbulent chaos, Forth from its spasms of fury and its poisons, Issuing at last in perfect power and beauty, Onward beneath the sun following its course, So thee O ship of France!
Finish’d the days, the clouds dispel’d, The travail o’er, the long-sought extrication, When lo! reborn, high o’er the European world, (In gladness answering thence, as face afar to face, reflecting ours Columbia,) Again thy star O France, fair lustrous star, In heavenly peace, clearer, more bright than ever, Shall beam immortal.
The Ox-Tamer
In a far-away northern county in the placid pastoral region, Lives my farmer friend, the theme of my recitative, a famous tamer of oxen, There they bring him the three-year-olds and the four-year-olds to break them,