III.
For there, where snows, in crowning glory spread,
High and unmark’d by mortal footstep lay;
And there, where torrents, mid the ice-caves fed,
Burst in their joy of light and sound away;
And there, where freedom, as in scornful play,
Had hung man’s dwellings midst the realms of air,
O’er cliffs the very birthplace of the day—
Oh! who would dream that tyranny could dare
To lay her withering hand on God’s bright works e’en there?