III

Oh, as the earth in discord and in dark,

When struck by Love on high with will for mace,

Keeps rattling till each mote finds its true place,

And mountain, fledged with groves, vies with the lark

To reach the sunrise; so the madness stark

Of gold, dethroning blood as God's best grace,

When struck by Glory's voice drops Nadir-base,

And blood for Freedom spilt, forms heaven's blue arc.

The shouts of millions shake Oblivion's mire

And raise Thrall's Hulks. Look! Justice's stooping sun,

Seeing in agony's each, a Washington,

Breaths life in them, and, over Brooklyn's spire

And New York's Babel Tower, they, one by one,

Hold Liberty's broading Torch of quenchless fire.