The Fine American Spirit
WHO are these, watching from ancestral doorsThe instant passing of our youth to France?Henceforth, a chapter of the world’s romanceTheir eyes have seen; it fills their native shoresWith an undying moment; now it poursOn silent breasts, o’erawed, the voice, the glance,The last, fond gleam of each loved countenance,And the heart trembles, while the spirit soars.The generations draw immortal breathThat breathe a nation’s soul. From sire to sonThe glory of the fathers enterethThe children’s hearts, and maketh all as one:Bright, at time’s touch, breaks out the holy flame,And to all lands doth freedom’s blood proclaim.
WHO are these, watching from ancestral doorsThe instant passing of our youth to France?Henceforth, a chapter of the world’s romanceTheir eyes have seen; it fills their native shoresWith an undying moment; now it poursOn silent breasts, o’erawed, the voice, the glance,The last, fond gleam of each loved countenance,And the heart trembles, while the spirit soars.The generations draw immortal breathThat breathe a nation’s soul. From sire to sonThe glory of the fathers enterethThe children’s hearts, and maketh all as one:Bright, at time’s touch, breaks out the holy flame,And to all lands doth freedom’s blood proclaim.
WHO are these, watching from ancestral doorsThe instant passing of our youth to France?Henceforth, a chapter of the world’s romanceTheir eyes have seen; it fills their native shoresWith an undying moment; now it poursOn silent breasts, o’erawed, the voice, the glance,The last, fond gleam of each loved countenance,And the heart trembles, while the spirit soars.
WHO are these, watching from ancestral doors
The instant passing of our youth to France?
Henceforth, a chapter of the world’s romance
Their eyes have seen; it fills their native shores
With an undying moment; now it pours
On silent breasts, o’erawed, the voice, the glance,
The last, fond gleam of each loved countenance,
And the heart trembles, while the spirit soars.
The generations draw immortal breathThat breathe a nation’s soul. From sire to sonThe glory of the fathers enterethThe children’s hearts, and maketh all as one:Bright, at time’s touch, breaks out the holy flame,And to all lands doth freedom’s blood proclaim.
The generations draw immortal breath
That breathe a nation’s soul. From sire to son
The glory of the fathers entereth
The children’s hearts, and maketh all as one:
Bright, at time’s touch, breaks out the holy flame,
And to all lands doth freedom’s blood proclaim.
G. E. WOODBERRY.