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WASHINGTON'S HEADQUARTERS, by                    
First Line: These halls, so venerable grown
Last Line: And this is freedom's land.
Subject(s): Freedom; Liberty


These halls, so venerable grown,
Once noble heroes trod, --
Their forms have vanished into dust,
Their spirits rest with God.

On this fair mount where Peace now reigns,
Throned on these verdant slopes,
In days of old, in dire distress,
Hung all our fathers' hopes.

This ground once trembled with the tread
Of patriots marching by,
For freedom's cause they suffered loss,
For freedom dared to die.

These cannon that with thunder shook,
The pulses of the land,
Now keeping watch, grim sentinels,
In silence waiting stand.

Here dwelt fair Freedom's peerless son,
Great leader of the free,
The father of our native land,
Hero of liberty.

At rest his valiant armies lie,
At rest, with glory crowned;
All Freedom's hosts now follow him,
His fame their praises sound.

Ye pilgrims to this sacred shrine
Who come from far and near,
Behold these relics of the past
That we have gathered here.

These blood-stained arms, these faded flags,
These drums that throb no more,
That did brave service for the right
In many a conflict sore;

These writings worn and dim with age,
That tell of liberty --
Wrecked fragments cast upon the shore
Of time's tempestuous sea!

Think you that Freedom too is dead
Like her mementos here?
Then let each freeman blush with shame
And for his country fear.

Before the lightning of her wrath
Her flying foes still yield;
Still the oppressed a refuge find
Beneath her mighty shield.

Immortal Freedom is not dead;
She liveth as of old;
And a curse still waits to blight his name
Who sells our rights for gold.

Forget not those who bled for us,
But true to freedom stand;
Remember God is Freedom's God
And this is Freedom's land.





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