Swells the first throb of that immortal heart,
The pulse of those huge veins.
Still, at these towers, our Old-World cities jest,
And neither hear nor see
The brood of gods at that gigantic breast,
The conquering race to be.
Chosen from many—for no sluggard soul
Confronts that night of stars—
The trumpets of the last Republic roll
Far off, an end to wars;