Iii

Ours shall be no island song, Suited to a maiden throng, Dancing with their wreaths of roses To the double-flute's soft closes!-- But a Nation's! whose large eyes With life's liberty are wise, And consenting sympathies Of all arts and sciences. She! who stands above the storms With truth's thunder in her arms, And the star-serenity Of her hope bound burningly Round her brow; and at her knee The Spirit of Progress who is shod With ethereal fire of God.... Yea! thy last shall still be first-- Some wild epopee to burst With such organ notes as rang When the stars of morning sang, And the Sons of Heaven sent Shoutings through the firmament; As our years have justified And the stars have prophesied.

1886.