Meet were it that the springtide rain should weep
O’er the degeneracy of your race—
The scattered glory of your Fatherland!
Fitting were it that the dark thunder-cloud
Should be the swift-winged chariot upon which
Your spirits love to ride—your path meanwhile
Lit by the fitful rays of yonder cold
Mysterious, flickering night-lamp, Borealis.
Nought less sublime, less wildly grand than these
Would be in harmony with your proud spirits.