Iv

America! 'Tis not thy mines of gold, Nor streams from mounts to meadows, like God's hand From out the heavens, a-flash across the land In long, deep sweeps to quicken winter's mould To reaps of ripeness,--that mine eyes behold, Invoking thee; for these are mere shore-sand To the broad ocean of thy spirit grand, Forming for man a new world for the old.

'Tis Liberty, to whose most blessed birth The stars all lead, rejoicing, which souls thee With God's compassion for humanity,-- That I invoke; and, now, when all the earth Bears palms and chants hosannas--what! shall she, The most devout, be shut from Freedom's mirth?