THE warrior may twine round his temples the leaves Of the Laurel that Victory throws him; The Lover may smile as he joyously weaves The Myrtle that beauty bestows him. The Poet may gather his ivy, and gaze On its evergreen honors enchanted; But what are their ivys, their myrtles, and bays, To the vine that our forefathers planted. Let France boast the lily-- let Britain be vain Of her thistles, and shamrocks, and roses; Our shrubs and our blossoms sprout out from the main, And our bold shore their beauty discloses. With a home and a country, a soul and a God, What freeman with terrors is haunted, Bedecked with the dewdrops and washed with the flood Is the vine that our forefathers planted. Then a health to the brave, and the worthy, that bore The vine whose rich clusters o'ershade us; They planted its root by the rocks of the shore, And called down His blessing who made us. --And a health to the Fair who will raise up a brave Generation of Yankees undaunted, To nourish, to cherish, to honor, and save The vine that our forefathers planted. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THADDEUS STEVENS by PHOEBE CARY CATTLE SHOW by CHRISTOPHER MURRAY GRIEVE STRANGE MEETING by WILFRED OWEN |